


In the Dark

by Jobabe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, Jollock - Freeform, Jolly - Freeform, M/M, Other, Parentlock, Polyamory, Sherlolly - Freeform, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jobabe/pseuds/Jobabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the dark, Molly has the courage to go to Sherlock when he's emotionally hurting after the fall. In the dark, he has the courage to take what she offers and to admit to wanting John Watson as well. Molly and John bond after Sherlock leaves her flat, but there are highs and lows for the trio to undergo before coming together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Cry In the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is yet another exploration of the Jollock dynamic, but with a bit more angst to it than my much more fluffy other two stories. Hope it's worth the ride!

Molly heard him moaning. It was the third night in a row she’d heard him moaning in his sleep, and she couldn’t stand it another second.

Sherlock had been in her flat, first recovering from the injuries he’d sustained when he leapt off the roof of St. Bart’s, and then while plotting his next move as he waited to make sure John, Greg Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were safe from Moriarty’s snipers. It had been two weeks, and Sherlock wasn’t in physical pain.

No, the moaning was due to emotional pain. He missed John, regretted being forced to let his best friend believe he was dead…but there was something more.

The rumors had never been true, of course; Molly knew that. Sherlock and John had never been lovers, Sherlock because he disdained such things, pushing aside the physical needs of his body in order to better focus his considerable intellect, and John because he was about as heterosexual a male as Molly had ever met.

But something had changed since the fall, and in the dark of her flat, with her bedroom directly across from the spare room Sherlock was currently occupying, she could admit to herself that she’d known all along that there was more to Sherlock’s feelings for John than mere friendship. She recognized a hopeless love when she saw it – heard it, rather – since she’d harbored an unrequited passion for Sherlock for so long it seemed she’d always loved him.

That recognition of a fellow soul in torment was what gave her the courage to rise from her bed, slip from her room and push open Sherlock’s half-closed door. She didn’t announce her presence, didn’t turn on any lights, just slid into bed with him and took him in her arms. When she did speak, it was two simple words in a soothing murmur: “I know.”

He turned in her embrace, reaching blindly to take her face in his hands, tugging her down and pressing his lips to hers in sudden urgency. She returned the kiss, knowing it was wrong, that he didn’t really want her, but this was likely the only chance she would ever have to be in Sherlock’s arms, and she was just selfish enough, in just enough emotional pain of her own, to take advantage of his rare vulnerability. In the morning, when the harsh light of day reminded her of her sins, she would castigate herself, but not now. Not tonight.

Not when she stroked her hand down his body and found him hot and hard and more than ready for her. Not when he moaned as she fisted his cock, sliding her hand up and down his shaft, reaching around to cup his bollocks, reveling in the way his hips bucked. Even if he was imagining someone else – John Watson – touching him, she was content to make him happy, to ease his pain as best she could.

She certainly couldn’t bring herself to stop when Sherlock’s lips parted beneath hers, when his tongue thrust urgently into her mouth, tangling with hers. Not when his hands were tugging at her nightgown, pushing it up so it rested beneath her armpits, revealing her small breasts and the scrap of matching satin that passed for knickers, inadequate cover for her rapidly dampening center. Not when his lips moved down her throat, when they sucked urgently at her breasts, moving between them while his fingers slid beneath her knickers and found her wet and waiting for him.

Certainly not when he pulled the fabric of her knickers aside and plunged deep within her, moaning out her name and John’s – the sound of her name coming from his lips a welcome surprise – bringing her to orgasm within minutes.

She held him tight as he continued to thrust and moan against her as she came down from her high, legs and arms wrapped around his body until, with a strangled shout, he came, filling her before collapsing upon her, sweaty and limp.

They fell asleep tangled together, Sherlock still half on top of her, a welcome weight. Sometime later Molly awoke to the feel of his lips and hands on her body again, drawing one nipple into his mouth as he massaged the other with the palm of his hand. She moaned and gasped as he slid down her body, his mouth leaving a trail of damp kisses until he nestled between her legs. They hadn’t bothered to clean up, just fallen asleep in a jumble of arms and legs, and when his mouth landed on her pussy it sent a jolt through her body like nothing she’d ever felt before. His semen was drying on her thighs and cunt but that didn’t seem to deter him in the least as he eased his tongue deep inside her, teasing her into another orgasm almost before he flicked it across her clit.

When she’d collapsed into a moaning, sopping wet mess, he pulled her into his arms, smoothing her tangled hair from her face and pressing kiss after kiss on her cheeks, her tightly shut eyelids, the corner of her mouth.

When she came back to herself enough to speak, she couldn’t help gasping out, “Why? I thought it was John you wanted!”

“Molly, you know me,” Sherlock rumbled in reply as he stroked his hand down her side, from breast to thigh and back again. “When have I ever been boring and conventional? I am perfectly capable of wanting more than one person – and I am willing to admit that I want both you and John, in my life and in my bed, at this juncture in time. The question is, can you accept that?” She sensed his eyes on her and turned her head up to face him as best she could in the near-blackness of the small room. “Can you share me with him, Molly? Because when I have cleared my name and destroyed Moriarty’s criminal syndicate, when the snipers are permanently eliminated as a threat, I intend to convince John to finally act on his latent bisexual proclivities and enter into a relationship with the two of us.”

He made it sound like a fait acompli, but then, this was Sherlock Holmes talking. Molly smiled, knowing he couldn’t see it, then reached up and stroked his hair with one hand, tugging him down for a deep, satisfying kiss. “Of course I can share you, Sherlock,” she whispered against his lips when the kiss ended. “I’ll take you any way I can get you, but you already know that. Whether it’s just this one night or forever or anything in between, you have me and always will.”

“Then I have a favor to ask you,” he replied after a moment, a moment during which he pulled her closer, pressing his body tightly against hers. She could feel him, hard and ready again, but refrained from putting her hands on his cock. Not until she heard the favor he was about to ask her, although she had a feeling she already knew what it was.

That certainty gave her the boldness to speak up. “Is it about John?”

Sherlock went very still, as if she’d surprised him, and when he spoke she knew she done just that. “Yes, it’s about John. He’s in a bad place, you know that, Molly. Do you think you could find a way to…comfort him while I’m gone?”

Comfort John. Oh, Molly knew exactly what Sherlock was asking of her, and it was no easy thing. However, it was exactly what she’d expected him to ask, and she already knew the answer. “Of course. Whatever you need – and whatever he needs,” she added, just to be sure he understood that she knew what he wanted her to do. “I’ll be there for him, Sherlock, I promise.”

He kissed her again, showing his gratitude, expressing it the best way he knew how, and she was content, knowing she’d once again proven his trust in her was not – never would be – misplaced.

When he raised his body over hers again, she opened her legs and moaned as he entered her, gasping out his name as he began moving, slowly at first but with increasing urgency. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, and whispered her love and need of him into his ear as he brought her to her third orgasm of the night, swiftly followed by his own, almost the same as before but better, so much better, knowing that he planned for them to have a future together. She and Sherlock and John. Unconventional, yes, but she had no doubt that if anyone could make it happen, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

oOo

Sherlock was gone. Two days after their night together, he was gone. Molly was still trying to adjust to the fact that things had finally come together and he had started on his self-appointed mission to destroy Moriarty’s network and redeem his reputation.

At least he had Mycroft to help him. How his brother had discovered Sherlock wasn’t dead, she wasn’t sure, but considering his “minor” position in the British government – and how intimidating she found him – she wasn’t about to ask. Not that she had any idea how to contact him, of course, but that didn’t stop her from wondering.

And even though Sherlock had told her not to, of course she couldn’t stop wondering about him as well. Was he safe, was he remembering to eat and get enough sleep. Did he miss her the way she missed him.

At least he’d taken the time to say goodbye and not just disappear in the middle of the night the way she half-expected him to. At least he’d given her a few hours notice.

At least, she remembered with a smile and blush, he’d snogged her thoroughly before vanishing into the dark.

He’d been gone for a week before she found the courage to approach John Watson. She’d seen him at the funeral, of course, but he’d been so broken up she hadn’t trusted herself to do more than murmur a few words of condolence to him; anything more and she was afraid she’d break down and tell him the truth. Sherlock isn’t dead, John, but you’re in danger so he can’t come back until he’s fixed it all. 

No, that wouldn’t go well at all, for too many reasons to list.

Today, however, Mrs. Hudson had invited her for tea. “It’s more for John’s sake than mine,” she’d admitted when she rang Molly up the previous day. “He just sits alone inside the flat, hasn’t even gone out for milk or anything, poor boy.” She’d sighed, Molly had murmured something she hoped was soothing, then been shocked when Mrs. Hudson blurted out: “I know the rumors about the two of them weren’t true – John has had a shocking amount of lady friends spend the night over the past few years – but I can’t help but think they might have come to some kind of an understanding, given enough time.” Then she’d apologized, Molly had assured her it was quite all right, and the conversation ended with Molly agreeing to come for tea.

Which was why she was currently standing outside the entrance to 221B Baker Street, hesitating. Should she ring or not? Was this a bad idea? Her stomach certainly didn’t think so; it had been unsettled ever since she got up that morning and still wasn’t very happy with her.

She squared her shoulders. Upset stomach or no (damned nerves), she’d accepted an invitation. Besides, she’d promised Sherlock. She loved him, would do anything for him, and John was a friend (and if Sherlock was right, soon to be more than a friend) in pain. She could keep her mouth shut, keep Sherlock’s secret, but she could talk to John about anything else. That was the agreement, and that thought gave her the courage to finally press the buzzer labeled “Hudson.”

The door opened less than a minute later, revealing the beaming face of Mrs. Hudson. “Molly, so glad you could make it, dear!” The older woman ushered her inside, giving her a warm hug after closing the door behind her. “I’ll just get the tray ready, you go on up and let John know I’ll be there in a few.”

Before Molly could offer to help, she vanished into her own flat, the door closing firmly behind her. Molly shrugged, hung up her coat on one of the hooks and walked up the stairs.

The door to John and Sherlock’s flat was shut, so she knocked. When there was no response, she knocked again, this time calling out: “John? It’s Molly Hooper. Mrs. Hudson invited me to tea, she’ll be up…”

Before she could finish, the door opened to reveal a wan, tired-eyed John Watson. He was fully dressed in a clean jumper, denim trousers and a pair of worn grey trainers, but it was clearly only habit that kept him from lounging around in pajamas and a dressing gown. 

She was taken aback to see him leaning on his long-disused cane; oh, God, the limp had returned. She shut her mouth and pasted on a bright smile. “Hullo, John. I hope this isn’t a bad time, but Mrs. Hudson insisted…”

She fell silent as he pulled the door fully open and stepped aside, silently permitting her to enter.

He left the door open in anticipation of Mrs. Hudson joining them with the tea tray, leaning heavily on his cane as he followed Molly to the sofa. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Thanks for coming by, Molly. I know you have a busy schedule…”

She paused in the act of sitting, then stood back up, walked over to him and pulled him into a comforting embrace. “I miss him too, John,” she whispered as his arms wrapped around her and his head settled in the crook of her neck.

He pretended he wasn’t crying and she pretended not to feel the hot tears soaking into her shoulder. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson took another ten minutes to join them, giving them both time to regain their composure.

The afternoon only improved after that. Mrs. Hudson, as Molly had already learned, made an excellent cuppa, and John came out of his grief and actually talked to both women. When Molly and Mrs. Hudson made to leave, worried about overstaying their welcome, he actually asked them to stay a bit longer. 

An hour later Molly was finally on her way out the door when Mrs. Hudson stopped her. “Thank you, dear,” she said in a soft voice, eyes glistening with emotion. “That did him a world of good. Do you think you might stop by more often in future? I do my best but seeing you seems to have brought some of his old sparkle back, and if John is looking at pretty girls again, then maybe he’ll be able to get his life back together after all. I do worry,” she added with a sad smile of her own.

Molly was touched, and reached out to take the older woman’s hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Of course I will, and not just for John,” she assured Mrs. Hudson. “You loved Sherlock, too, after all.”

oOo

One month later found things little changed for them. Molly hadn’t heard from Sherlock – not that she expected to; he’d as good as warned her it might be months before it was safe for him to communicate with her – and John was still using his cane, but they’d settled into something of a routine that helped keep them both sane. Molly came round every few days for tea or dinner, depending on her work schedule, with Mrs. Hudson providing the meals at her insistence (“Cooking gives me something to do, dear, even if I’m not John’s housekeeper”) and the three of them gradually becoming more and more comfortable with one another’s company.

At the end of that first month, however, things changed in a drastic manner for two reasons: one, she and John had a serious snogging session after an evening spent watching crap telly and drinking wine while Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister in Leeds, and two, Molly realized her continued physical malaise wasn’t due to stress or worry alone.

In short, she was pregnant.


	2. Lost Souls Connecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be Jolly, folks. Enjoy!

She cried when she told John, a few days after receiving official confirmation; she couldn’t help it. She’d already confessed that she and Sherlock had spent the night together, although she’d claimed it was the night before he jumped, of course. She was on the pill but had been one of the unlucky one percent for whom it was ineffective. “Of course it would be me,” she said as he held her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder. “John, what am I going to do?”

“Do you want to…to keep it?” he asked, his voice gentle and soothing as he stroked her hair away from her face with one hand while the other rested on top of hers on her lap.

She looked up at him, knowing her eyes were red and her nose as well; she was one of the unfortunate ones who got blotchy when she cried, nothing pretty about it. “Yes,” she replied simply. There was never any question of her not wanting to keep Sherlock’s baby. “But there will be an awful fuss if anyone finds out…and you know they will, the reporters always find someone to tattle to them if enough money is involved.”

She sighed and started to move out of his arms, but John tightened his grip and dropped a kiss on her temple, keeping her firmly in place as he replied, “I know. The jackals of the press and all that.” He’d undergone more than his share of unpleasantness since Sherlock had jumped, much more than Molly had since he was Sherlock’s friend and flatmate and she was (as far as the larger world knew) only a pathologist whom the detective had “fooled” while working with her over the past five years of his association with St. Bart’s.

His expression turned thoughtful, and Molly, who’d been about to speak, kept shut and waited instead. “Would it be better if you named someone else as the father?” he finally asked, stroking tentative fingers down her arm from her shoulder to her wrist and back again.

She felt a tingle go over her at the feel of his hand on her bare skin, and a feeling of sudden joy squeezed her heart as she realized what he was offering. She looked up at him. “You'd do that for me – for us?” she corrected herself. “Would you do that, John?”

He nodded and smiled. “It would protect you from the gossips and jackals; enough people at the hospital knew you and Sherlock were sort of friends that they might put two and two together if you tried to just, you know, not name the father or pretend it was a one-off with some chap you met in a bar.”

“Yeah, I'm afraid no one would believe that about me,” Molly replied, her voice rueful. Her hand reached up of its own volition and stroked John's cheek. His eyes shut briefly, lips still curved in a smile, then he was leaning down and kissing her.

It wasn't their first kiss, but certainly the first that didn't involve alcohol. Molly had waited for John to say something after that incredible snogging session, but all he'd done was mumble an apology right after and then avoid the subject ever since.

Now, however, there was no wine to blame, only two people who needed each other reaching out and seeking comfort in one another's arms.

Molly had managed to keep her guilt about her secret knowledge suppressed, knowing she was lying to John on the one hand, but also feeling as if she were in the same boat on the other, since she had no idea of Sherlock was still alive and well or not at this point. Oh, she knew it wasn’t even close to being the same, but it kept her from completely losing her mind with guilt. And now that she knew she was pregnant, she needed to do her damndest to keep her stress levels down.

With that in mind, she gently ended the kiss and pulled back enough to face John, her expression serious as she said: “John, there’s something about that night that I didn’t tell you about, but you need to know.”

He looked confused, a bit wary, but rubbed gentle circles into her shoulders and nodded for her to continue. She kept her eyes trained on his, not wanting to miss a single nuance of his expression as she shared Sherlock’s feelings with him. “It wasn’t just me in that room with us…not literally, of course, but in spirit…you were there, too.” She reached up to caress his cheek, running her fingers lightly along the shell of his ear as she continued. “Sherlock admitted…I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable or upset, but John he told me…”

“…he wanted me, too,” he finished for her, eyes crinkling at the corners as he offered Molly a sad smile. “I know. And the strange thing is, I can’t say the feeling wasn’t…mutual.” He blew out a breath and leaned against the back of the sofa, bringing her with him, his arms still around her, making her feel safe and secure and, truth be told, quite turned on as well. Was it because Sherlock wanted him, that she wanted him as well, or had this been building all along? 

She ignored her mind’s buzzing desire to analyze – and a simultaneous desire to relive their first snogging session – listening attentively as John poured out feelings and desires that couldn’t have been easy for him to admit. “I've never been...not even at Uni or school or in the army,” John was saying. “Attracted to other men, I mean. Still don't have those kind of leanings except when I think about him. Crazy, isn't it?”

Molly shook her head. “No, not crazy at all, John,” she replied, once again stroking her fingers down the side of his cheek. “No crazier than me falling head over heels for a man who treated me like shit for years, didn't even seem to ever notice me as a woman until just before...” She choked up a bit, and John pulled her closer, tightening his embrace as tears trickled down her cheeks.

“Don't cry, Molly,” John begged, pressing kisses to her cheeks and forehead, the parts of her face he could reach with her snuggled so tightly against him. “We'll get through this together, yeah? You and me and little Sherlock Junior. We'll raise him up right, tell him all about his father and do our best to keep him from turning into a socially inept little shit.”

That last bit brought a snort of laughter from Molly; she gazed up at John and smiled. The smile faded as their eyes met, the intensity of his gaze darkening into something different than concern for her well-being. Something...warm. Inviting.

Sensual.

Before she knew it their lips were pressed together in their third kiss. John’s mouth opened, his tongue slipping between her lips, and she opened for him automatically, turning her head to give him a better angle to deepen the kiss. She felt him tugging at the pony-tail holder, pulling her hair loose with one hand while the other slid down her back and lower, cupping her bum and pressing her body more tightly against his.

He was a damn good kisser, and judging by the bulge in the front of his trousers he thought the same of her. Molly spared a second to wonder how they’d gone from tearful confessions to passion, then allowed the thoughts to fade from her mind as she focused on helping John remove his clothing while he did the same for her.

When they were both naked, she found herself lying on her back with John between her legs, his mouth on hers before sliding down to her throat, her collarbone, lower still…she let out a guttural moan as his tongue slid between her legs and thrust deep into her waiting wetness. God, he was good at this, really, really good and she could feel herself letting go already, giving in, coming undone when he’d barely touched her.

“Oh God,” she gasped out as her orgasm washed over and through her. “Sherlock...”

No. She had not just cried out another man's name in the middle of...but she had. Mortified, she tried to stutter out an apology but John was having none of it. “Shh, it's all right, Molly,” he murmured as he pulled her into his arms, stroking her gently from shoulder to hip, pressing a series of delicate kisses on her face – cheeks and eyes and lips. “Just promise you'll understand if I make the same mistake in a few minutes. We both love him, we both miss him, it's bound to happen. Let's just agree not to worry about it, yeah? Not to take it personally.”

She nodded, kissing him deeply as he arranged himself on top of her, between her legs. Molly guided him into her – no need to worry about condoms at this point in time, not when she knew John would never let things go this far if there were anything other than the possibility of pregnancy for her to worry about – and moaned into his ear as she felt his cock filling her. 

She knew she shouldn't compare, but it was different than it had been with Sherlock. Not in a bad way; certainly not worse. Just...different. She wondered what it would be like when Sherlock was able to return from his unwanted exile; would he come to her first, or to John? Or would he want them both at the same time?

That thought tore another moan out of her throat, increased her ardor to a fever pitch; picturing Sherlock and John together, with either herself in between them or simply watching them was enough to bring her crashing over the edge for a second orgasm, this one taking her so completely by surprise that she found herself screaming as John continued to thrust into her. 

“So close,” he gasped out as she clutched him to her, burying her face in the crook of his neck, simply breathing in the scent of him as he grunted and heaved and ultimately spent himself, going nearly rigid as he orgasmed.

He didn't call out anyone's name, simply moaned out a series of unintelligible syllables before collapsing on top of her. Molly kissed him and stroked his back, waiting for him to recover enough for her to be able to roll out from underneath him.

She didn't spend the night, not that first time. Nor did she stay the second time they made love, nor the third or the fourth, but by the fifth time they both acknowledged it was going to be a regular something between them. That was when John asked her to move in with him, and Molly agreed.

Sherlock, she was positive, would approve. Just as he would no doubt approve of John claiming to be the father of Molly's unborn child, all in the name of protecting him or her from not only the jackals of the press but from any lingering enemies.

The only person to whom they shared the truth was Mrs. Hudson, the day they sought her approval for Molly and her cat Toby to move into the flat.

Mycroft, however, found out on his own. That was the day Molly discovered just how little he cared for her, and that meeting was to have consequences none of them – neither she nor John nor Mrs. Hudson nor even Sherlock – could have foreseen.


	3. A Subtle Form of Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is Not Nice to Molly. At all.

**Four Months Later**

“Miss Hooper.”

Molly started and turned to the sound of her name – incorrectly titled though it was – and found herself face to face with Sherlock's elder brother Mycroft. “Oh, Mr. Holmes,” she said when she found her voice again. “What are – what can I do for you?” she corrected herself nervously. The last time Mycroft Holmes had been in her morgue had been right after Sherlock's 'suicide.' When she'd asked Sherlock if his brother knew he wasn't dead, he'd been very snippy, responding only with: “If he doesn't he soon will, since he's terminally incapable of staying out of my personal business.”

“I came to offer you my congratulations, of course.” His smile never even touched that flat, reptilian stare of his. “On your impending motherhood.” His eyes flickered down to her enlarged abdomen.

“Oh, um, thanks, Mr. Holmes,” Molly replied, wondering why she felt so nervous. Surely Mycroft was just...no, of course not. Mycroft Holmes never did anything without an ulterior motive.

His next words proved that. “Please, Miss Hooper, do call me Mycroft. And do you mind if I call you Molly? After all,” he added, voice oozing false pleasantness, “we're practically family now.”

She gaped at him, then shut her mouth and stammered out: “Oh, that's...no, the baby's John's, John Watson is the father, not...”

He tutted and began a slow stroll around the perimeter of the room, arms casually behind his back. “Please, Miss Hooper – Molly,” he corrected himself with a bit of a sneer. “Don't bother. I know all about your little assignation with my brother the night before he trotted off to begin his single-handed takedown of the late James Moriarty's criminal syndicate.” He offered her another oily smile as he passed by her.

Feeling somewhere between mouse-cornered-by-cat and rabbit-facing-snake, Molly pivoted to face him. She said nothing; what could be said, after all? It was true, this was Sherlock's baby, and no amount of denial would convince Mycroft otherwise. 

He finally came to a stop, not two feet away from her, and gave her a disdainful, toe to head perusal before finally meeting her eyes. “I approve of how you're handling this situation, by naming John Watson as the baby's father to the general public.” He took another step closer, and suddenly the expression of false affability was completely erased from his face. “However, Molly, I would advise you not to be come too attached to either man, as it is clear that you are little more than a way for them to connect with one another. A surrogate, as it were. And when my brother returns to the land of the living, you would do well to remember that, and be prepared to step aside once your...services...are no longer necessary.”

Molly was utterly speechless in the face of such unexpected vitriol. Even Sherlock at his worst had never eviscerated her like this, not even that horrible Christmas Eve two years ago. “I...you don't even...you have no idea how Sherlock feels about me!” she finally burst out, cheeks flaming in a combination of rage and humiliation. “Or John! How could you be so...” Words finally failed her and she just stared up at the older man's impassive face.

“Molly, believe it or not, I am doing you a kindness,” he said when it was clear she couldn't finish her thought. “Surely you understand that the failure rate of most polyamorous relationships is in the 75-95 percent rate? And yours will theoretically begin only after a child has been introduced into the equation, thus introducing even more cause for instability? A child,” he added pointedly, “my brother knows nothing about?”

While she flailed for some way to express her outrage, he stepped behind her and whispered one last bit of venom into her ear: “A child I'm certain he'd much rather raise alone with John. After all, they loved one another long before they even considered you a friend.”

“You...I...” Molly was furious, so angry she could barely speak – but at the same time, somewhere deep inside, the voice of her insecurities was whispering that Mycroft might be cruel...but he wasn't wrong. “I know what we're...contemplating...isn't what society would consider 'normal',” she finally found the voice to say, “but considering your own orientation, don't you think it's a bit hypocritical to say such, such awful things to me?”

He gave a sound very much like a sniff, his expression sour. “My 'orientation', as you put it, Miss Hooper, is much more accepted than the relationship you and Dr. Watson and Sherlock have deluded yourselves into believing you want. Once you've come to your mutual senses, you'll see I was right. A pity so much damage will have been done in the meantime.”

He wished her a good day, his voice frosty, then paused in the act of leaving. “Do feel free to come to me for assistance once you've reached the same conclusion, Miss Hooper.”

Then he was gone, and Molly wasn't sure if she wanted to cry or scream. She wished Sherlock was here, or John, someone who would soothe her and tell her the part of her that believed what Mycroft had to say...that that part was wrong, utterly wrong.

She could call John, or text him, or just tell him about when she got home later, but that would lead to awkward questions as to why Mycroft Holmes was involving himself in their private lives – especially since they'd agreed that John would claim the baby as his. 

She was left, as she so often was when it came to the Holmes men, floundering and lost, but did her level best to bury the insecurity Mycroft had caused, to pretend that no, she didn't even slightly agree with him.

oOo

John could tell she was upset, of course; he might not be Sherlock Holmes, deductive genius, but he was certainly intelligent enough to tell when the woman he lived with was unhappy. “Molls? Did something happen today?” His eyes instinctively appraised the parts of her that were visible, lingering a bit on her stomach. The baby chose that moment to kick, which seemed to reassure him, but the smile that appeared on his lips quickly faded as he took in Molly's worn appearance.

She gave him a forced smile and shook her head. “No, just the usual crazy work stuff,” she said, her tone light, as if she didn't want to worry him. “I am a bit worn out, though. Our girl has been very active today.”

They'd learned the baby's sex at the first scan, and settled on Daisy Amanda Hooper for a name. Molly had wanted to name her daughter after Sherlock's mother, Violet, but knew it was a bad idea if they were going to pretend John was her father. So they settled on Molly's favorite flower for a first name, and John's mother's name for a middle name. When Sherlock returned, Molly privately vowed, his mother's name would be added legally as well. Daisy Amanda Violet Hooper Holmes might be a bit of a mouthful, but she wanted both men to be represented.

Especially if things worked as Sherlock believed they would, and didn't dissolve into disaster the way his brother predicted.

She wished, not for the first time, that she could just tell John the truth, that Sherlock was alive and busy destroying the criminal network Moriarty had left behind – although that was really only secondary to his finding and neutralizing the snipers who had been paid to kill John, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade if Sherlock didn't kill himself. Even with Moriarty dead, his people appeared to be very loyal, which made absolutely no sense to Molly, but there it was. Just because she couldn't understand it didn't mean it wasn't true.

She'd had sporadic communication from Sherlock since moving into 221B Baker Street, and it was as frustrating as it was comforting. At least she knew he was still alive, but she had no way to get in touch with him in return. And she desperately wanted to talk to him, to let him know how his brother felt about their future plans.

All these thoughts chased themselves round and round her mind as John helped her remove her coat and got her settled on the sofa, her feet raised onto a pile of pillows and a soft comforter thrown over her legs. He wouldn't let her help with dinner, insisting he could manage, and she let him, feeling guilty about all the secrets she was keeping from him, but filled with warmth at the way he gook such good care of her.

She rubbed her tummy after he'd bustled off to the kitchen, whispering to her daughter: “John's going to be a wonderful father to you, Daisy, love. And Sherlock, too, when he gets back.”

Then she reached for the remote and put on the telly, determined to drown out the voice of her insecurities at least for tonight.

A voice that sounded an awful lot like Mycroft Holmes.


	4. Everything Comes Out

John was the one who insisted that Molly needed to find a therapist, someone to talk to since she clearly wasn't dealing well (he thought) with Sherlock's suicide. Especially considering her pregnancy. 

She argued with him; since John was supposedly her baby's father, how could she really be honest with a therapist? Sherlock was still quite notorious, even six months after his leap from the roof of St. Bart's; what if the therapist was unethical enough to be tempted to leak information to the press about Molly and Sherlock's one-night stand, the identity of her unborn daughter's real father?

In response, John gave her the card of his own therapist; barring that, he offered her the name of a man Mycroft had recommended.

Because of this, Molly was in a quandary. On the one hand, John was right; she desperately needed someone to talk to, someone she could completely unburden herself to in a way she couldn't with John or Mrs. Hudson – and wouldn't with Mycroft. In fact, if she never saw Mycroft Holmes again for as long as she lived, it would be too soon. She'd never felt true hatred for another living being – aside from the duplicitous “Jim from IT” Moriarty – the way she did for Sherlock's elder brother.

On the other hand, her objections were legitimate; what if the therapist she selected turned out to be untrustworthy? Then Sherlock's secret would no longer be a secret, and if John found out from someone other than Molly or Sherlock himself that he was still alive, he'd never forgive either of them. Ever. And the life Molly so desperately craved, with John and Sherlock both loving her and wanting to be with her, both of them acting as fathers to her baby girl, would never happen.

In the end, she decided to go with the therapist Mycroft had recommended, for two reasons: one, so that she wouldn’t be sharing a therapist with John (because that felt far too awkward); and two, because Dr. Halliday not only would be required to respect doctor-patient confidentiality, but as a government employee was also bound by the Official Secrets Act. It was still no guarantee that he wouldn’t leak information about Sherlock to the press, but it was the closest she would ever come, and she, reluctantly, she agreed to a first meeting during her eighth month of pregnancy.

If not for John Watson, that meeting would have been the last as well. But Molly Hooper wasn’t a quitter, or else she’d have given up loving Sherlock Holmes long before he’d admitted to caring for her. Dr. Halliday hadn’t exactly been the most sympathetic person Molly had ever spoken to. But John was so happy she was finally getting help with her depression, she couldn’t bear to hurt him by admitting that the doctor made her uncomfortable.

After her second session, and many hours in between spent thinking on the things Dr. Halliday had told her after she’d had her own, cautious say, she began to believe that his bluntness was exactly what she needed. A wake-up call of sorts. So she soldiered on, and agreed to continue seeing him after the baby was born as well.

If only she’d heard from Sherlock during those last months of her pregnancy; things would have been so much easier to bear if she knew he was still alive, how he was holding up, how successful his mission was proving to be. Even negative information would have been easier for her to handle on her own, but Sherlock never contacted her and she was too proud – and still too full of resentment – to ask Mycroft how his brother was doing. But she hadn’t heard from him since the six month mark of her pregnancy, and that silence was weighing on her heavily.

She just wished she could tell John the truth. It had been eight months, and even having someone to unburden herself to was only a temporary relief. She felt awful, keeping the truth about Sherlock’s supposed suicide from his best friend, a man he’d as much as admitted to being in love with, but when she broached the subject, Dr. Halliday reminded her that it would be placing an unfair burden on John, as well as breaking Sherlock’s trust in her if she said anything.

She sighed and shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position without waking John. They were sharing Sherlock’s room, had moved a queen-sized bed in after Molly moved into the flat, and the fact that they’d sold Sherlock’s bed had been another dollop of guilt added to her over-full plate. At least the bulk of his possessions had simply been moved up to John’s old room, stored there until it was time to convert it to a nursery; Molly had persuaded John to leave it alone until the baby was a few months old and no longer sleeping in the bassinet she’d purchased to keep in their shared bedroom.

With any luck, Sherlock would be home before any long-term decisions had to be made about his belongings. Otherwise Molly was going to have to turn to Mycroft to intervene, which encounter she looked forward to with as much enthusiasm as a visit to the dentist.

After that initial, unpleasant encounter, he’d thankfully kept away, from both her and John. John hated him for his own reasons, although he hadn’t shared them with Molly yet and she didn’t want to pry. Their relationship was still so new, there were so many uncertainties, and Molly was holding such a large secret from John that she felt herself in no position to demand answers from him. Certainly not after he’d been so wonderful to her. If she hadn’t truly been in love with him before Sherlock’s faked suicide, she was now. Just as in love with John as she was with Sherlock, a situation she’d never have imagined possible a year earlier.

She just hoped the three of them would be able to get past the inevitable difficulties once Sherlock was able to return; that John would be able to forgive the two of them, and that Mycroft would keep his stupid nose out of their business. She also prayed that Sherlock hadn’t changed his mind, although Dr. Halliday had very gently (for him) reminded her that time apart from someone you thought you loved could impact your emotions more strongly than you might realize.

She sighed and shifted again, rubbing her stomach as Daisy kicked at her mother from the inside. Although Molly wished Dr. Halliday wasn’t quite so honest at times, she did appreciate, after five sessions, how the things he said helped her to understand the need to prepare herself for disappointment. Just in case. No point in wearing rose-colored glasses, he’d told her once. Not if she wanted to be truly happy someday.

“Daisy doing push-ups again?”

Molly started a bit, then turned her head to face John, whose hand now lay on her stomach. He interlaced his fingers with hers and Molly smiled at him in the darkness of their shared bedroom. “Leg lifts, I think,” she replied, keeping her tone light, glad that he couldn’t see her clearly enough to read her expression. John was no Sherlock, but he understood the nuances of worry well enough whenever he saw them in Molly’s face. Just as she did with him. “Why is it that all babies seem to be nocturnal at this stage?”

John laughed, a low, comfortable laugh, and gave her fingers a squeeze. “Sorry, Molls, but if there was anything I could do to help, you know I would. Can’t even sing her a lullaby, since my singing voice is, well, you’ve heard it.”

Molly giggled and reached up with her free hand to caress his cheek. “Oh, John, it’s not that bad,” she protested as he kissed her fingertips as they ghosted across his lips. “Maybe if you just tried talking to her, instead?”

“Yeah, let’s see if that does any good,” John agreed, shifting around a bit and releasing his gentle hold on Molly’s hand in order to press he head to the high mound of her abdomen. “Once upon a time, little girl, there was a brave and wonderful man,” he began, and Molly felt tears stinging the corners of her eyes as John told Daisy about her biological father.

One day, hopefully soon, Sherlock would be back and the story would have a happier ending for all of them.

**Two Weeks Later**

“Come on, Molly, you can do this,” John urged, holding tightly to her hand and watching the obstetrician and nurses working between her legs. Molly had gone into labor in the middle of the night, of course, a week ahead of her due date, and had been in labor for over six hours now. Lots of first-time babies took their time, he knew, but not Daisy Amanda Hooper. No, she was ready to come out, had already crowned; all Molly had to do was give a few good, hard pushes and their daughter would be born. Their daughter, and Sherlock’s; he could never forget his best friend, the man he and Molly both admitted to loving after it was too late to do anything about it. Daisy’s real father, a man she would never meet.

Molly’s hand tightening on his brought John back into the moment. She was gritting her teeth, head lifted from the pillows as she strained to bring her daughter into the world, the OB murmuring encouraging words and the nurses echoing that encouragement until finally, with a harsh sob, Molly cried out and Daisy was out of her mother’s womb and in the larger world at last.

And she was most definitely not happy about that state of affairs, judging by the amount of howling the newborn was doing. John kissed Molly on the forehead as she released her death-grip on his hand and sank back against the pillows, red-faced and sweating, her eyes half-closed while the doctor reported on the healthy vaginal birth of very angry little girl. John couldn’t take his eyes off her; she had masses of dark, curly hair already, and he had no doubts that, once her blue eyes settled into their own color, it would be more reflective of her father’s blue-green orbs than Molly’s lovely brown eyes. “She’s gorgeous,” he breathed, and gave Molly’s hand a soft squeeze before planting another kiss on her forehead. “Absolutely gorgeous, Molly.”

“Can I hold her?”

Before John could answer one of the nurses replied, “Of course, Miss Hooper, just give us a second to clean her up and get her swaddled, poor little lamb’s a mite chilly at the moment!” But there was a smile in her voice and eyes, even if her mouth couldn’t be seen, and Molly responded by smiling weakly back at her, before her gaze once again settled on her daughter. 

Daisy was still screaming, her little hands curled into fists and her legs kicking a bit, but she finally calmed down by the time Molly was able to take her in her arms. John peered down at her, and could have sworn that she was really looking around and taking things in, in a very Sherlock-like manner. When Molly cooed at her and called her “precious little girl,” her head definitely turned as if seeking out the sound of her mother’s voice, and John’s breath caught in his chest at the sight of the two of them gazing at one another, Molly’s eyes full of love and Daisy’s wide and wondering. “My girls,” he said tenderly, reaching out to stroke a finger along Daisy’s cheek. “Sherlock would have loved to have seen you two…”

He fell silent as he realized he’d spoken his thoughts aloud, but the doctor and the single remaining nurse were busy on the other side of the room, and he let out a sigh of relief. “Sorry, Molly,” he murmured against her ear, leaning down to be sure his words would be heard only by her – and Daisy, of course, who would never tell. “I just…well. He would have been happy, I think. To meet her.”

Molly’s eyes had filled with tears, and John cursed himself for opening up such a tender subject when Molly was still recovering from giving birth. Sherlock’s daughter was only minutes old and John had already cocked things up for her mother. He was an idiot, and wasted no time in telling Molly so. “Sorry, Molly, I’m shutting up now, I promise.”

“No, it’s all right, John,” she replied, although tears were still rolling down her cheeks. She mustered up a smile when the nurse returned for Daisy, apologetically reminding Molly that she had to go for her tests and weighing and a bit more cleanup. But all Molly did was nod and watch as her baby was taken away from her, a wistful expression on her face along with something harder to identify. Then her teeth began gnawing on her lower lip in that way they had when she was worried or upset, and the look she flashed him was much easier to read: guilt. What the hell did Molly have to feel guilty about, he wondered.

A half-hour later, when the two of them were alone, he found out. And his entire world was once again upended, this time by Molly uttering two simple words.

“Sherlock's alive.”


	5. Baby Blues?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for post partum depression resulting in inappropriate reactions to a crying child (but no harm to said child, promise). This is where the angst gets upped, folks.

Daisy was crying. Molly pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and willed the baby to stop. She’d been fed – bottle, Molly had planned on breast feeding but wasn’t. She just couldn’t, not after the row with John and the browbeating she’d received when Mycroft found out she’d told John that Sherlock wasn’t dead, not to mention the less-than-helpful therapy session she’d just endured. Daisy was fed, John had changed her before leaving for work at the clinic not ten minutes ago, and Molly was exhausted. Physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.

Her therapist had been right; she should never have burdened John with the truth about Sherlock. She had fooled herself into believing she was doing the right thing, when all she’d done was made things worse. Now John bore the same burden she did, knowing that Sherlock was alive, that he’d had to fake his death in order to save three lives, John’s included, and the guilt was crushing John as surely as it had been crushing her. It had been a week since she’d told him, since Daisy had been born, and he still wasn’t really talking to her. Not the way he used to. Nor was he sharing their bed, electing to sleep on the sofa and claiming it was to give her ‘space’. 

Space she neither wanted nor needed, but was too consumed with guilt and misery to tell him so, to beg him to come back, to forgive her for not telling him straight off – or for telling him at all. She was so mixed up she had no idea which she felt guiltier about.

And Daisy wouldn’t. Stop. Crying.

“Shut up,” Molly muttered as she paced a bit faster, her hands twisting together now, feet shuffling on the carpet. Gonna wear a hole in it, Molls, that’s what her father would have said.

Her father. God, she missed him, his steady, reliable advice. So much. It had been almost eight years now, and what she wouldn’t give to hear his take on her current situation. Once he’d gotten past the shock of his only daughter wanting to be in a romantic relationship with two men at the same time – two men who also wanted to be romantically involved with one another.

Of course, if that was what either John or Sherlock would still want. How could John bear to be with a woman who’d lied to him about something so important? And how could Sherlock still want her after she’d done the one thing he’d asked her not to, and told his secret to John?

It was unbearable; she just needed some peace and quiet, some time to herself, time to think, but Daisy was still crying and John was still at work and Mrs. Hudson was out at the shops and Molly was stuck, wringing her hands and trying very hard not to imagine them stuffing a pillow over the baby’s mouth until the crying stopped.

That thought brought her up short; she shoved her hands against her mouth in horror. God, that was her own baby she was thinking about, her daughter, whom she loved and had carried inside her body! Sherlock’s daughter by blood, John’s by law and, she hoped, by love and what kind of a monster was she, thinking such horrid thoughts? No fit mother at all, just like Mycroft had insinuated. Nothing more than a surrogate, good for carrying the baby and then handing it over to the real parents, the ones who would never ever think such things!

She was crying now, too, tears streaming down her cheeks and her hands stifling the sobs that jerked through her body, but through it all she could still hear Daisy wailing and something just…snapped.

Whirling around, Molly found herself facing the door to the flat. Her eyes darted frantically about, where was it…there! Her handbag, on the table by the door. Snatching it up and thrusting her stocking feet into her shoes, she opened the door and rushed down the stairs. She just needed, just some air, that was all. A few blessed seconds to sort herself out. Some peace away from Daisy’s incessant crying and the guilt and the responsibility and utter mess she’d managed to make of her life.

oOo

“Molly?”

John dropped his keys on the nearest table and hurried into the bedroom. Daisy was in a proper strop, poor thing, her face red and mouth wide open, body clenched as she wailed with her entire body. She was soaked through, nappies, nightgown, sheets and swaddling; what the hell had happened to Molly?

With a growing feeling of dread, John lifted Daisy into his arms, wet blanket and all, cuddling her close in an effort to calm her down a bit as he hunted through the flat for her mother.

No sign of Molly anywhere. He raced up the stairs to the unused bedroom that was once his – empty of life. He dashed back into the sitting room, looking for evidence – of what, he has no idea.

He notices that Molly’s handbag is missing from its usual spot; does this mean she left the flat of her own volition? “No,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head and cradling Daisy closer to his chest. Molly wouldn’t just leave, wouldn’t leave Daisy alone in the flat with no one else even in the building. Perhaps there was some kind of an emergency, she had to rush out while Daisy was sleeping, left a note for Mrs. Hudson that their landlady had missed…

He was grasping at straws and he knew it. Molly would never just walk out on Daisy, no matter what the emergency. Even if Sherlock called and summoned her to his side in Burma or wherever the hell he was currently holed up, Molly would have either taken Daisy with her or left her with someone.

Daisy whimpered a bit, and John hurried back to the bedroom to change and clean her as best he could. Once she was dry and warm she settled down a bit, but he could tell by the way her mouth kept opening and closing that she was hungry. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

The sound of the front door opening on the main floor of the building caught his attention, and he hurried down the stairs, hoping against hope it would be Molly with some really good explanation as to what had happened. Had someone threatened her, forced her to leave Daisy behind with no one to watch her?

His face fell when he saw Mrs. Hudson closing the door behind her, a Tesco’s bag looped over her arm and her handbag on her shoulder. She smiled at John, the smile fading as she took in his no-doubt frantic expression. “John? What’s wrong?” she asked, eyes sliding down to look over Daisy, her honorary granddaughter. “Where’s Molly?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that, Mrs. Hudson,” John replied, his voice tight with strain. In clipped tones he explained what he’d come home to, while Mrs. Hudson offered sympathetic and horrified exclamations in turn. She set her bags on the floor next to her flat’s door and held her arms out. “Give her over, John, and find out what’s happened to our Molly. It must be something dreadful for her to have left the baby behind. I’ll take care of her while you deal with the situation.”

John felt an enormous sense of relief flooding over him, even though all Mrs. Hudson had done was take over Daisy’s care in the interim. “Thank you,” he said, meaning it as sincerely as he’d ever uttered those words. “I’m going to ring Lestrade, and perhaps Mycroft, see if they’ve heard anything or might be able to help.”

“Sherlock’s brother?” Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow at that. She was unaware that her former tenant was still alive – that secret was one John was still trying to come to grips with – but she knew the other secret that Molly and John were keeping, that Sherlock was actually Daisy’s father.

She also knew that neither John nor Molly seemed particularly friendly with him, but the situation was too unusual for John to ignore a resource that might very well be more useful than even the police. “He needs to be kept in the loop, Mrs. H,” was all he said, and she seemed to accept him at his words. 

Daisy chose that moment to resume crying, this time clearly wanting her bottle. John waited until Mrs. Hudson had carried the fussing infant into her flat – nappies and formula and changes of clothing were kept on every floor of 221 these days – before pulling out his mobile and dialing Mycroft’s number.

If Molly’s disappearance had anything to do with Sherlock’s continued absence, then he needed to speak to Mycroft first.


	6. Missing Molly

John had settled into a routine since Molly had vanished: Leave Daisy with Mrs. Hudson, go to work at the clinic, run to the shops after to pick up whatever needed picking up for the evening, have dinner with Mrs. Hudson, take Daisy back upstairs to his flat, spend time with her until she finally went to sleep for the night – she'd started sleeping four to eight hour stretches at a little over a month old – and try to find Molly.

Mycroft had convinced John not to report her missing, not to go through official police channels, using the argument that it wouldn't do for Sherlock to find out that way. He, Mycroft, would endeavor to not only locate Molly, but to contact his brother as well, to let him know what had happened.

Two weeks later, Mycroft came by the flat personally to give John the news: Molly had left under her own recognizance. Molly had been suffering from post-partem depression, and had was so terrified of harming her own child that she'd left, trusting Daisy to John's care. She'd given Mycroft a note when his men located her in Paris. He handed it to John and waited quietly while the other man read it.

When he'd finished, John shook his head in disbelief. “And your men – you – are sure this is what she wants? What she _really_ wants?”

He felt a bit lost and uncertain, and his eyes dropped down to the letter again. It was definitely Molly's handwriting, he'd recognized it immediately, but the things she'd said... “She really wants me to retain custody of Daisy until she sorts herself out? Does she have to go all the way to America to do that?”

Mycroft nodded soberly. “Apparently she felt she might constitute a danger to my niece in her current state of mind, as witnessed by the fact that she knowingly left a newborn alone, in a building without even another tenant available to assist should something go amiss. Since her therapist here has, unfortunately, not been able to give her the help she needs, and since she felt that she needed to make a complete break until she feels capable of handling the responsibilities of motherhood, I agreed to fund her relocation. Temporarily, of course.”

His smile was cold and precise and didn't come close to reaching his eyes. John's instincts told him that something more was going on here. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, but something about the whole situation raised the hackles on the back of his neck. Yes, he had Mycroft's word – and Molly's note – reassuring him of her continuing safety; yes, women with severe post-partem depression had been been known to have such extreme reactions as fleeing their children and families, but surely Molly must have known he would do anything he could to help her through it, to be there for her until Sherlock was able to return to them!

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Mycroft's polite smile had become a small frown. “I can assure you, Dr. Watson, that Miss Hooper leaving is the best thing she could have done. I know she expressed a fear that she might do some harm to her daughter in the note she let you, but did she tell you that she herself was severely traumatized as an infant, that her own mother nearly drowned her in her bath when she was suffering from an undiagnosed case of post-partem depression? Surely you can understand Miss Hooper's desire to keep my niece safe, until she feels she is better able to care for her.”

No, Molly's note hadn't included that horrible detail; no wonder she'd been terrified of what she might do to Daisy!

Later, when things unfolded and secrets and lies were revealed, he would understand what had been bothering him about this meeting: the fact that Mycroft never referred to Daisy as Molly's daughter, but only as his own niece. Disassociating Molly from the relationship in so subtle a manner might have simply been, as John initially dismissed it, Mycroft being Mycroft, the Iceman, but as it turned out, it was simply one more wrong being done in the name of eliminating Molly Hooper from her daughter's life – and from the life Mycroft believed John and Sherlock would be happiest living.

But all that was for the future. In the here and now, another two weeks since Mycroft's last – and only – visit, John was simply a single parent struggling to find a way to do the best he could for his child, while at the same time attempting to find some way to get in contact with Daisy's mother. Because no matter what the note said, no matter what Mycroft said, John still believed that the best thing for Molly would be to be back in London, surrounded by people who loved her. Obviously her fucking therapist had screwed up royally, but that didn't mean they couldn't find her a new one. It was too bad that every time Mycroft Holmes proved that he wasn't infallible, someone John cared for had to suffer.

He still hadn't entirely forgiven Mycroft for his part in Sherlock's downfall, but knowing that Sherlock was still alive, that Mycroft had made up for that earlier lapse by covertly assisting his brother in his self-imposed 'cleanup' task, had tempered John's dislike for the elder Holmes brother. Enough that he hadn't hesitated to contact him once Molly went missing.

Even though John hadn't informed Mycroft that he knew about Sherlock's non-death, the other man obviously knew that Molly had told him. And although he hadn't once brought it up, John also suspected the Mycroft knew that he and Molly had been on the outs ever since that revelation, although John had been more than conscientious in helping out with Daisy, with whom he'd fallen immediately in love as soon as he laid eyes on her. Which only added to his own guilt, and was, if he were forced to admit it, as much of a driving force between his desire to reunite Molly with her daughter as his belief that it was really the best thing for both of them.

He desperately wished Sherlock was back, that his mission to dismantle Moriarty’s criminal empire could be over with, so he could meet Daisy and help John figure out where in America Molly had run off to.

And, selfishly, because John missed him. He missed his friend, and he was impatient to explore what their relationship might evolve into, to see if Sherlock still wanted the intimacy with both him and Molly that he'd confessed to wanting the night before he left London.

John had never even entertained a single though in his entire life of becoming romantically or sexually involved with another man...until he'd fallen hopelessly in love with his infuriating, brilliant, breathtaking, frustrating, gorgeous shithead of a flatmate.

Just as he'd fallen hopelessly in love with Molly Hooper. And the fact that he undoubtedly had something to do with her fleeing the country was killing him.

If it weren't for Daisy, he'd have demanded that Mycroft tell him where she'd gone, exactly, because of course Sherlock's older brother knew; he just wasn't telling. At Molly's behest, but still. It didn't make John want to go after her any less, to apologize to her for behaving so poorly after she'd told him that Sherlock was still alive and how she'd helped him fake his death – and why. What kind of a self-centered berk gave a woman who'd just given birth the cold shoulder for keeping someone else's secret? John Watson, that was who, and he'd give anything to have the past month to do over again.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts as he stared unseeingly down at his open laptop, that he didn't hear the door to the flat easing open. Nor did he hear the sound of footsteps on the floor until suddenly he sensed a presence and looked up...

...straight into the blue-green eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, frozen in the act of jumping to his feet, the laptop perched precariously on the edge of the low table sat in front of the sofa. 

Sherlock's lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile. “An offer I intend to take you up on in the future, John, but right now we have a missing pathologist to find.” The smile faltered, and a nervous expression settled on his features. A look John had rarely – if ever – seen on the other man's face. “And I believe I have a daughter to meet.”

John was moving before he was aware of it, the laptop crashing to the floor as he virtually leapt across the coffee table and pulled Sherlock into an embrace. “You fucking wanker,” he whispered as he hugged the taller man, not caring that tears were falling down his cheeks. “I missed you, you know that? We both did. Thank God you've come back. Thank God.”

For a moment it seemed Sherlock wasn't going to return either the hug or the spoken sentiments, but then John felt long arms curling around him, a hand stroking the hair on the back of his neck, a pair of lips brushing a kiss against his temple. “Introduce me to our daughter, John,” Sherlock whispered. “Then we'll figure out how to bring her mother back home to us, where she belongs.”

John released Sherlock, wiping at the tears on his cheeks before smiling. “This way, she's still sleeping in the bedroom with us. At least I finally get why Molly was so reluctant to get rid of your stuff and turn the upstairs bedroom into a nursery.” Then he reached out for Sherlock's hand, gave it a quick squeeze, and brought him to meet Daisy.


	7. Messages Delivered

The dream was always the same. It always started out brilliant, so wonderful that Molly never wanted to wake from it.

_Sherlock is back, Moriarty's web of evil entirely unraveled, burnt to ash, as dead and gone as the evil madman himself. Molly throws herself into Sherlock's arms, kisses him, laughs and holds him close. He returns the kiss, deepens it, his hands running over her body. Their clothes have vanished and she she can feel the heat of his erection pressing against her midsection, reaches down to grasp it only to find another hand there ahead of her. She looks over Sherlock's shoulder and sees John pressing fervent kisses into the taller man's shoulders, his eyes warm and dark with desire. But not just desire for Sherlock; he pulls Molly's face to meet his, pressing a kiss to her lips that is just as intense as the one she and Sherlock just shared._

_They tumble onto the bed together, an enormous bed that awake-Molly would recognize as coming from a special about the lifestyles of the royals she watched a few years earlier. Bodies are pressed together, kisses are shared equally among the three of them, and Molly is happy, happier than she's ever been._

In her sleep, Molly whimpered, legs and arms moving restlessly. She'd come to the part of the dream when it always changed, altered into a nightmare worse than any she'd ever had.

_John and Sherlock are looking at her oddly; she feels a nervous smile plaster itself on her face as she asks them what's wrong. Then they are pushing her out of the bed, shoving her away from them, demanding that she leave. “You've had the baby, Molly,” Sherlock tells her as he holds John in his arms, kisses down the other man's body and pauses with his head above John's cock to give her that icy, dismissive stare she knows all too well. “You've done your part. Now run along, John and I are together and we don't need you anymore. You're not even useful as a nanny; you left Daisy by herself, after all. Do have fun in America, we won't be seeing you again.”_

_She is mute, unable to say anything, but she reaches out imploringly to John. Lovely, kind John who would never do anything to hurt her. But no, he is ignoring her, moaning Sherlock's name as the other man takes his cock in his mouth, curling his fingers into his hair and acting as if there is no one else in the room other than the two of them, John and Sherlock._

_Now she is sobbing, falling to her knees and keening her pain like a wounded animal left for dead, and the two men recede farther and farther away from her, until suddenly she is alone, with only the darkness and the sound of her own cries for company._

_The sobs quickly alter into the heartbroken wails of an infant. Her infant, her Daisy, alone and frightened, crying for a mother who never comes for her, for two fathers who are too wrapped up in one another to pay attention to her, and Molly knows she's failed them, failed them all, how can she live with herself, how can she continue living knowing all the damage she's caused?_

Molly came awake with a gasp, sitting upright and staring into the darkness of the small bedroom she'd been sleeping in for the past month. Body drenched with sweat, shaking, tears still leaking from the corners of her eyes, she tried to shake off the recurring nightmare with little success. The pills her new doctor, Dr. Kaye, had prescribed for her were helping Molly cope with things much better in the daytime, but at night she still needed sedatives to help her sleep without dreaming. And that, Dr. Kaye had cautioned her from the beginning, was only a short-term solution. 

What Molly really needed was a psychiatrist, Dr. Kaye had bluntly informed her. If she truly wanted to recover from her post-partum depression, she needed to speak to someone who specialized in such illnesses.

After her experiences at the hands of her former therapist, Dr. Halliday, Molly was understandably a bit leery of trying again, but she was beginning to feel desperate. She knew she'd done the right thing by leaving Daisy with John, but the longer she stayed away, the guiltier she felt. Yes, Sherlock would come back some day and Daisy would be raised by two men who loved one another – and Sherlock would learn to love his daughter as well, Molly just knew he would – but wasn't it wrong for her to just abandon them like this? No matter what Mycroft said about statistics and the likelihood of their unusual relationship succeeding for more than a year, she believed, deep down, that if anyone could make it work, it would be her and John and Sherlock.

Her mobile – no, cell phone, they called them cell phones in America – buzzed, and she groped for it, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. A text, blocked number, who could it be? With fingers that trembled, she pressed the “Open Message” button.

A picture appeared on her screen, and Molly froze, the breath catching in her lungs. It was John, John and Sherlock...holding Daisy. Sherlock was holding Daisy in one arm, the other wrapped around John's shoulders. The two men were smiling down at the baby, who was gazing up at her father with an expression of solemn wonder in her eyes.

The phone buzzed again, and Molly again pressed the button, fingers shaking so badly she nearly dropped the phone.

_As you can see, Miss Hooper, you've made the right decision. Sherlock is home and safe, Daisy is thriving, and the three of them are quite content. Please believe me when I say I wish you well in your new life, and earnestly hope that you do the same for those you left behind. - MH_

A third buzz. As if guided by a force outside herself, Molly watched her finger pressing the key to open the last photo.

Sherlock and John, Daisy sleeping in her carry cot on the sofa next to them while they shared a tender kiss.

With a cry of mingled hurt, frustration and anger, Molly hurled the phone at the wall, then broke down into gut-wrenching sobs as she collapsed onto the bed.

Sherlock was home. He and John and Daisy were together, just as they'd always been meant to be, and he and John had entered into a relationship. Without her. She was superfluous, the surrogate, just as Mycroft had predicted. None of them wanted or needed her. What was the point of going on, if she couldn't be with the three people she loved most in the world?

oOo

The front doorbell rang just as John finished changing Daisy's nappy. “Great timing, kiddo,” he said as she cooed and kicked her legs the way she always did once she'd been cleaned up. “Cause there's no one home but us to get it, since Mrs. Hudson talked your daddy into taking her to the shops to buy you some new clothes.”

Sherlock had been home for a week, his reputation restored and Rich Brook proven to be the villain John had always known him to be. Sherlock and Daisy had taken to one another like two ducks to water, her two daddies had begun to tentatively explore the idea of physical intimacy with one another (although so far they hadn't gone beyond a few shyly shared kisses and hugs), 'Granny' Hudson fussed over them all as if her title was more than honorary...and Molly was still somewhere in America. The one gaping hole in the happy home that 221 Baker Street had become.

He missed her, Sherlock missed her, Daisy and Mrs. Hudson missed her. On top of that, John still felt a profound sense of guilt at having contributed in any way at all to her decision to leave them. Yes, he'd been angry with her, but how had he allowed his anger at her keeping Sherlock's secret to overcome his own powers of observation, his compassion – his fucking professionalism, for God's sake? How had he missed that Molly was slipping deeper and deeper into post-partum depression?

No matter how Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock tried to tell him it wasn't his fault, he knew the truth.

He'd let Molly – and by extension Daisy and Sherlock and the rest of them, including himself – down. He only hoped that when Sherlock finally found her and brought her home that she would be willing to forgive him.

By the time he'd reached the bottom of the stairs he was deep in a fit of self-loathing, and his expression must have reflected his inner turmoil, judging by the wary look the woman waiting on the front step gave him.

Mycroft's assistant, 'Anthea'. They stared at one another for a moment before Daisy made a soft cooing sound, and the bored, always-distracted-looking PA who appeared to be married to her blackberry instantly vanished. The adoring expression she lavished on Daisy – her obvious pleasure at seeing the baby for the first time (at least in person, you never knew with Mycroft when you were under observation), went a long way toward thawing the instant anger he felt at seeing her on his doorstep, since Mycroft himself had yet to be bothered to visit since Sherlock's return. “She's beautiful,” the woman said as John silently presented Daisy so the PA could get a closer look at her.

He couldn't help preening a bit at the compliment, although he'd contributed nothing to her genes. “She has Sherlock's hair and Molly's eyes,” he said as 'Anthea' held out her finger and smiled when Daisy grasped it in one tiny hand. Then 'Anthea's' smile faded, and she extracted her finger from the baby's grip, taking a step back as if feeling the need to physically distance herself from them.

John instantly went on the alert; something was off, something was wrong, but before he could ask, 'Anthea' spoke. “I'm sure you realize this isn't a purely social visit, Dr. Watson.”

He shrugged. “They never are. But if you think Daisy and I are getting into that vehicle with you...”

The black car waiting by the curb had, of course, not gone unnoticed by him. His visitor, however, craned her head over her neck as if she'd forgotten its presence, then turned back to him and shook her head. “No, Dr. Watson. I'm not here to take you anywhere. I'm here to give you something.” She opened the flap of the messenger-style bag she wore over one shoulder, and John finally took in the details of her appearance.

'Anthea' always dressed at the height of fashion, in high heels and suits, hair and makeup perfect. But today she was wearing blue jeans, a red long-sleeved blouse and a matching cardigan, with a pair of black trainers on her feet. Her hair was pulled back in a simple pony-tail and she wore no visible jewelry. Her makeup was lightly applied, and John couldn't help wondering what the hell was going on.

He found no answers in the plain brown envelope she handed him. “Open it after I'm gone, that's all I ask,” she said as he gave her a questioning look. “And please, tell Sherlock that I'm sorry. If I had any idea my father had done something like this, I would have done something about it a long time ago.”

John gaped after her as she turned and headed back to the car. No driver jumped out to assist her, which was just another puzzling aspect to this entire visit. “What's this about?” he called as she headed for the driver's side and opened the door. “Anthea? Who's your father?”

She paused and gave him a sad smile. “It's all in the envelope, John,” she said, startling and further disconcerting him by her use of his given name. “Take care of your beautiful little girl, and try not to hate me too much, if you can.”

Then she got in the car and drove away, leaving John staring after her. Then Daisy began to fuss and he hurried back into the building, clutching the envelope in one hand as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.


	8. The Ugly Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's meddling is revealed, Anthea's identity is revealed, and (hopefully) the depth of John and Sherlock's feelings for Molly are revealed.

As soon as he entered the flat that evening, Sherlock could tell something was wrong, no matter how peaceful the scene appeared. Daisy was lying in her carry cot, warmly wrapped and fast asleep, with John sitting on the other end of the sofa quietly perusing a magazine, but there was a subtle tension in the set of his shoulders, and the way his gaze was fixed on the periodical in his hands alerted Sherlock that the other man wasn't actually reading it, possibly wasn't even _seeing_ it since he was clearly lost in his thoughts. 

“John?” Sherlock said softly, cautiously as he closed the door behind him and moved over to the sofa, stopping directly in front of his friend and romantic partner. “What's wrong?” He glanced at Daisy, taking in her peaceful face and the soft sounds of her snores, relieved beyond measure to see and hear evidence that she wasn't the cause of John's obvious distress. Then his eyes fell on the brown manila envelope – contents bulky, mostly loose or stapled papers but possibly some photographs and – yes, a small, recording device as well. Nothing to bring the short hairs on the back of his neck to attention, yet he knew that innocuous-looking container was the cause of John's distress.

“Your brother's PA dropped this off,” John said, nodding at the envelope and dropping the magazine on the table next to it. “I haven't opened it yet, figured I'd better wait until you got home.” He turned toward Daisy, moving as if to lift her from her carry cot – undoubtedly to place her into her bassinet – but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Let her sleep there, John. No point in moving her. I think we'd both feel better if she remained in the room with us, since this undoubtedly has something to do with Molly,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. If their words hadn't woken Daisy up by now, she would no doubt continue to sleep as their conversation continued.

John nodded, lips compressed in a tight line, obviously believing that the information contained in the packet was unlikely to be entirely good news. If he'd thought for one second that it divulged Molly's whereabouts he would have already opened it. No, he was worried that it was bad news of some kind, something he wouldn't want to have to read on his own without some kind of emotional support. And although Sherlock was hardly the most emotionally supportive man on the planet, or in the UK – or even in the current room – he had long ago resolved to always be there when John or Molly needed him. Having failed for the one, he had no intentions of doing so for the other.

With that in mind, he helped John remove the clutter that had gathered on the low table, sinking down on his knees and grabbing the envelope as soon as everything else – magazines, assorted baby paraphernalia, a set of false teeth from an old case that had amused Daisy for almost an hour the other day – had been set on the floor. John watched as Sherlock carefully opened the envelope, his hands clasped together on his lap and leaning forward slightly, brow wrinkled in the way it did when he was worried and trying (and failing) not to show it.

Sherlock sorted through the various papers, setting the recording device and packet of photos aside for the moment. He had to treat this information as a case, had to remain as calm and impartial as he could even as he felt his temper struggling to rise as he scanned the documents 'Anthea' had provided. It wasn't easy, and he could sense John's own struggle not to demand answers from him until he'd gotten the gist of the documents and felt he was able to speak without exploding into anger. He looked up at John, who stared back at him, then spoke before Sherlock did more than open his mouth.

“Your brother's PA, 'Anthea',” he said, the words coming in a rush. “She's...she's his daughter. Isn't she.” He swallowed. “Your niece.”

It wasn't a question, but Sherlock nodded to confirm John's suspicions. “Her real name is Honoria. Honoria Ashford Holmes,” he replied, raking a hand through his hair as his mind raced to find the best way to explain things. “No one else knows except her younger half-siblings in Australia, which is where she is undoubtedly heading by now. She was the product of my brother's only youthful indiscretion with one of the servants...yes, yes, very Victorian melodrama,” he added impatiently when John opened his mouth to offer up some form of commentary. “That experience apparently was enough to turn him off women all together, or so he's always claimed, although I believe he had homosexual tendencies even before Honoria's mother got her claws into him. She deliberately seduced him, got pregnant – yes, there was a DNA test done in utero and another immediately after birth – and accepted a generous lifetime payoff in order to take her daughter and disappear, as Mycroft had no interest in fatherhood and my parents indulge him even more than they do me.”

He couldn't help the petulant note that entered his voice, and knew John heard it simply by the way the other man raised one eyebrow. Sherlock offered a crooked smile before taking a deep breath, anxious to get the entire, sordid story out of the way so they could concentrate on what really mattered. “Fast forward thirteen years; Honoria's mother had married and had two other daughters before she and her husband were killed in a car accident. The husband's family took in the younger sisters, but Honoria's mother named Mycroft as their daughter's guardian and so he reluctantly agreed to take care of her. Luckily – or unluckily – my niece inherited the family traits of extreme intelligence coupled with a disdain for the bulk of humanity, so she and Mycroft got along quite well. So well, in fact, that he employed her as his PA as soon as she completed her formal education – Harvard, Oxford, and a year at Vassar. She reconnected with her half-siblings while in America, apparently grew a conscience very recently, no doubt due to their influence, and has provided us with information that should prove useful in coercing Mycroft into telling us Molly's exact whereabouts on that continent. She is most likely living in New York City or some other large, metropolitan area, under an assumed name and still...” 

His voice caught, and he found himself almost choking on the next words as he fought to get them out over the ball of rage and sorrow that seemed to have lodged itself in his throat. “Still unlikely to be receiving treatment for her post-partum depression, as the so-called 'therapist' my brother so kindly provided for her was actually doing his damndest to drive her further over the edge.”

John knew it was going to be bad, that the contents of the envelope weren't going to be anything good, but this...this was not what he'd been expecting. “You mean...he was incompetent, wasn't doing a good job,” he tried, but Sherlock shook his head, effectively stopping him from speaking.

“No, John,” he replied, speaking slowly and deliberately, his eyes chips of blue ice in face gone glacial with anger. “He deliberately sabotaged her at every step. These documents are transcripts of his sessions with Molly. Printed out for my _dear brother's_ reading pleasure.” The last words were spat out with so much vitriol it was a wonder they didn't burn his mouth.

They certainly burned in John's ears, and in his heart as well. He felt physically ill at the thought of someone – anyone – deliberately setting out to impede Molly's recovery in so cold-blooded a manner as this. Then again, no one had ever accused Mycroft Holmes of anything so ridiculous as _sentiment_. “Does it say why he would do something like that?” he wondered, blinking away the tears that had sprung up in his eyes. “What did Molly ever do to him?”

Sherlock had jumped back up to his feet and was pacing furiously, tossing the recording device restlessly from one hand to the other as he moved back and forth across the room. “Nothing, Molly’s never done anything to harm another human being in her entire life,” he said, speaking rapidly, his voice a cold monotone, but his eyes…oh, if Mycroft was in the room with them, Sherlock’s eyes would burn his brother to ash. “Mycroft is a misogynistic bastard,” he spat out, coming to a stop directly in front of John, his eyes on the still-sleeping form of his daughter. “I don’t even have to speak to him to know exactly what he did.” A bitter laugh escaped the prison of his lips before he once again turned to meet John’s horrified gaze. “He probably went to see her, to tell her that this relationship we three were planning wouldn’t work, that she would only be in the way once the baby was born. He doesn’t feel that women can truly understand men, can’t love the way we can…with the exceptions of his daughter and our mother, of course.” His lip curled contemptuously. “He manipulated her into seeing the professional of his choice, had the man prime her, wind her up, push her to the breaking point and cause her to believe the only way to keep from harming her daughter was the run away.”

“That’s…that’s the most disgusting, depraved…how could he claim to be a therapist and do that to Molly?” John’s voice broke a bit as he rubbed a trembling hand across his brow. “Oh, God, and I made it worse, played right into their hands when I was so angry with her for keeping your secret…”

In a flash Sherlock was by John’s side, taking him into his arms for a comforting hug. Yes, it was awkward; he and John were still feeling each other, still working out this new, tentative relationship, both feeling as if things were somewhat on hold without Molly with them. But one thing Sherlock Holmes had learned, a lesson his own brother had yet to discover, was that human contact, especially with someone you loved, meant more than any empty platitudes ever spoken.

“We’re going to go see my dear brother,” Sherlock said after a long moment passed in silence, during which he knew John was struggling not to break down. Not just because it wasn’t ‘manly’ but also because he wanted to be strong for Daisy. “And he’s going to tell us exactly where Molly is, or face the consequences.”

Staring up at Sherlock’s grim face, John wasn’t sure he wanted to know what those consequences might…but then again, he didn’t really care. Because Mycroft Holmes deserved whatever the fuck happened to him.


	9. Doing the Right Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know how many of you are on tumblr or heard about Mark Gatiss (Mycroft) and his comment about Sherlock thinking of Molly Hooper as "moving wallpaper" but it certainly spurred me to finish this chapter! There's actually only about 2 or 3 left to go after this one, believe it or not. Warnings for mentions of suicide attempt.

Of course Mycroft was expecting them. He was sitting behind an enormous mahogany desk, in a room reeking of wealth and good taste, and John could give two fucks’ for the fact that his boots were tromping over what was undoubtedly several thousand pounds worth of carpeting. He hoped he left marks that would have to be professionally removed.

“Where is she, Mycroft?” Sherlock of course didn’t bother with any niceties under the best of circumstances, and John was hardly going to remonstrate with him right now. 

“Is there a reason you left my niece at Baker Street with your landlady, Sherlock, rather than bringing her here for a visit?”

Sherlock gave his brother a hard stare, then moved forward the few steps necessary to bring him directly in front of the desk. He leaned down, pressing both fists against the highly polished wood, and said, enunciating each word clearly and slowly, “Where. Is. She?”

Mycroft affected a bored expression that made John clench his fists in frustration; was he really going to obstruct them like this, after everything Anthea – uh, Honoria – had given them as ammunition to use against him?

Then again, maybe he didn’t realize his daughter-cum-PA had betrayed him. “Where’s Anthea?” he asked, looking around as if expecting to see her lurking in a corner.

The corner of Mycroft’s upper lip twitched, but otherwise he showed no emotion as he replied, “My PA is on holiday, Dr. Watson. I’ll be sure to let her know you asked after her.”

John did his best not to look at Sherlock, but he could tell by the sudden stiffening of Mycroft’s posture that he’d still given something away. Oh well, no sense trying to hide things from either of the Holmes brothers – but that didn’t mean he was going to say anything else. “You already knew my PA wouldn’t be here,” he said, narrowing his eyes and concentrating on John. “Which means…”

“Which means nothing,” Sherlock interrupted him, pulling his brother’s attention back to himself. “We aren’t here to discuss Honoria, Mycroft. We’re here to discuss Molly Hooper.”

The Iceman made no moves, showed no signs that he was affected at all by Sherlock’s naming of his daughter in front of someone who presumably wasn’t privy to such intensely personal information. His gaze remained fixed on Sherlock, and a long moment passed before he finally said, “What about her?”

“I believe my original question was, where is she?”

Mycroft shrugged, then gave Sherlock a supercilious look, the one John loathed. “Why should I know? It's hardly my fault if Miss Hooper is has decided to leave…”

Sherlock’s expression remained cold as he reached into his pocket, pulled out the small recording device that Anthea – Honoria – had given them, and clicked “Play.” As soon as he did so, Mycroft's own voice was heard.

_“I want that woman out of my brother's life, she's bound to undo all the good John Watson has done with her idiotic sentimentality. She's done one good thing for Sherlock besides helping him fake his death, and that's giving the Holmes family an heir. I want you to make sure she's gone, no matter what it takes. Do what you have to, Dr. Halliday, to make it clear to her that she is neither wanted nor needed in either man's life.”_

Sherlock clicked the mini-recorder and stared, stone-faced, at his elder brother. “Anything to add to that, Mycroft? Mummy would be so _proud_ ,” he added with a sneer, a first crack in the façade. 

“Sherlock, you know I only acted to protect you,” Mycroft said, his own façade firmly in place. If, indeed, it was a facade, which John highly doubted. No, that man really had no feelings, or at least, none for anyone he deemed unimportant. John wasn't sure how Sherlock wasn't launching himself across the desk at his brother; hell, the only reason John wasn't doing so was because he was literally so angry that if he moved so much as a n inch he was certain he would beat the other man to a bloody pulp. “Surely you must realize by now how unstable polyamorous relationships are, how unhealthy for your daughter...”

Sherlock's knuckles visibly whitened where they rested on Mycroft’s desk. Seeing that, knowing that it meant Sherlock was teetering on the edge of losing control, had the effect of steadying John's resolve, helping to keep his temper tightly reined in. “My relationship with Daisy's mother is none of your business, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, through tightly clenched teeth. “Just as my relationship with John is none of your business, nor Molly's with either of us.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Really, Sherlock? None of my business?” He paused, then went for the jugular in that suave, sophisticated manner he had, so smoothly that you never felt the knife until he was withdrawing the blade. “When were you planning on informing our parents of your daughter's existence? And how did you plan on introducing John and Molly to them, hmm? As your 'partners'?” 

At last the façade did slip as Mycroft spat the last word out with clear loathing. “Stop thinking with your dick, Sherlock, and put that brain of yours back to work,” he spat out, the swear word coming as a bit of a shock to John. “You know I'm right. Perhaps I was a bit heavy-handed when it came to Miss Hooper, but it was only to protect you. Once you've had time to think about it, you'll agree, I know you will.” He spared a glance for John. “You and Dr. Watson both will. Your daughter needs a stable, loving environment, and you and John can provide that for her. A single, ill-advised night with a woman who wasted no time in throwing herself at your best friend is hardly...”

It happened so quickly that John was barely able to react before it was over: Sherlock released his grip on John's arm, the recorder dropped to the floor, and Sherlock's fist connected with his older brother's jaw. The other man collapsed to the floor while Sherlock stood over him, shaking with rage. “You're my brother, Mycroft,” he growled as his brother gaped up at him in shock, “so that's as far as this will go. But if you ever interfere in my relationships with Molly or John – or Daisy – ever again, I promise, one punch won't be the end of the matter.” Then he turned on his heel and strode out the door, John following swiftly behind him, not even bothering to see how badly Mycroft might be hurt.

However, as soon as he caught up to Sherlock he grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to stop. “Sherlock, wait! I know that must have felt bloody good, but we didn’t get the information we needed from him! We still don’t know where Molly is!”

Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a mobile phone – not his own. “I can use this to find her. It’s all we need.” He gently disengaged John’s grip on his arm and resumed walking at a breakneck pace for the door.

“But won’t Mycroft have it encoded or locked or something?” John tried to protest. 

Sherlock flashed a grim smile over his shoulder and shook his head. “No. He knows if he doesn’t let me use this to find her I’ll just come back and things will get even nastier between us. If there’s one thing I know about my brother, it’s that, no matter how misguided, he actually believes he has my best interests at heart when he interferes like this.” His expression darkened and the smile vanished as he added, “And it doesn’t matter to him who else might be hurt in the process. Consider yourself lucky he actually likes you, John, or that first kidnapping the night we met would have had a much more…unpleasant…ending for you.”

John felt a chill crawl its way up his spine, but fought off the shudder it tried to induce. He had no intentions of asking Sherlock what he meant by ‘unpleasant’ and couldn’t care less if Mycroft liked him, hated him or thought of him as a goldfish; all he wanted was the same thing Sherlock wanted: Molly back, safe and sound.

oOo

Sherlock remained preoccupied with the mobile the entire cab ride home, and John knew well enough to leave him to it, even though he was bursting to do something, anything to work off the nervous energy their visit had engendered. He knew he was fidgeting but had thought he was controlling it well enough until suddenly Sherlock’s hand shot out and landed on his where it rested on his thigh. Well, ‘rested’ wasn’t entirely accurate; it was twitching, fingers tapping the way Sherlock’s often did when he was impatient.

The feel of Sherlock’s hand gently squeezing his, even as his eyes remained trained on the mobile phone in his hand, was enough to calm John down, to allow him to just sit there until they finally reached their destination.

After paying the cabbie, he retrieved Daisy from Mrs. Hudson, reassured the older woman that he and Sherlock had a solid lead on Molly’s whereabouts – hoping he was telling the truth – and joined Sherlock in their flat.

It was still oddly unsettling to know that Sherlock had been back in his life for an entire week, that the two of them had acknowledged their feelings for Molly and for one another, that they’d been sharing a bed, had kissed one another and embraced one another, but as of yet had not had sex. John knew his own reluctance had everything to do with his guilt over his part in driving Molly away, but was unsure if Sherlock was refraining from initiating anything out of respect for John’s feelings or if it was simply that he was content with things the way they were. After all, he and Molly hadn’t exactly been engaged in a long-term sexual relationship; from what both of them had said, it had only been the one night. What if Sherlock just wasn’t that interested in sex in general, would this relationship still work out?

He shelved such thoughts as soon as he entered the flat and handed Daisy to her father. Sherlock’s stormy expression softened as he gazed at his daughter’s sleeping face, her lips so like his own, her lashes long and sooty against her soft pink skin. Although her hair had started off dark, it was beginning to lighten a bit, and John couldn’t help wondering if she would end up with her mother’s auburn locks rather than Sherlock’s dark curls when all was said and done.

He felt his heart melt as Sherlock laid a gentle kiss on Daisy’s forehead, then carried her into their bedroom and presumably placed her in her bassinette. That suspicion was confirmed when he reemerged from the room, Mycroft’s mobile once again in his hands, the loving expression wiped from his face as he scowled down at the device. “Problem?” John asked, finally closing the door and shrugging off his coat. He was still too wired to settle down, and headed for the fridge to grab a beer. 

“Fuck!”

John removed his hand from the fridge and turned automatically toward Sherlock. “What? What’s wrong” he demanded, hurrying to the other man’s side.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the living room floor, staring down at the mobile’s screen, clearly struggling to contain whatever strong emotions had caused that initial outburst. John could see fury and fear warring for control, and felt his heart skip a beat before speeding up as he waited to see what Sherlock would say.

“Mycroft just received a text,” he said, his voice cold and remote, in direct contrast to the emotional turmoil still painting his features. “It's about Molly.” Sherlock's face was positively grey as he turned to stare at John. “She's...she's tried to kill herself.”

John stumbled backwards, hand groping blindly for the chair before he sank into it. “My God,” he whispered, his mind going blank for a moment before a noxious swirl of emotions threatened to choke the breath from him. Guilt, sorrow, anger, all warred for dominance, with guilt overwhelming the other two in the end. He buried his face in his hands, his entire body shaking although he didn't realize it until he felt Sherlock's strong arms encircling him, holding him close. “It's not your fault, John. Stop blaming yourself. We both know who really drove her to this.”

Sherlock's voice was shaking, not with guilt or sorrow but with anger; he was practically vibrating with rage, John dimly realized. Rage at his brother, Mycroft, the one who truly was to blame for all this. With a flash of clarity, John recognized that, left to their own devices, he and Molly would have worked through his anger and hurt at being lied to about Sherlock. Once his head had cleared, he would have seen the signs that he'd not been given time to notice, and gotten Molly the help she needed. She would still be there with them, with him and Sherlock and Daisy, if it wasn't for Mycroft fucking Holmes and his incessant meddling in his brother's life.

He raised his head and met Sherlock's gaze squarely. “We have to go to America and fetch her back.”

Sherlock nodded, his gaze steely as he replied with a simple, “Yes.”


	10. Fix What's Broken

Shadybrooke Rehab Facility, Upstate New York

“Please, Miss Harper, let me help you.”

Molly turned her head away from the sincere look the therapist was giving her in order to stare blankly at the window. She hadn’t bothered to try and learn the woman’s name, since no one here would believe that ‘Marly Harper’ wasn’t her real name, that she was really Molly Hooper and that, although she’d tried to kill herself, she hadn’t really meant it. She was a pathologist, after all; if she’d truly meant to end her life, she’d have slashed her wrists properly, not just cut at them in a fit of despair brought on by messages that were, lo and behold, no longer on her mobile, having vanished at some point. She wondered briefly if Mycroft was having her watched, then dismissed the thought, unable to muster the energy to care. The medication they had her on made it hard to care about much of anything, to be honest, especially not the man whose deliberate cruelty had helped land her in her current predicament.

She easily blocked out the sound of the earnest young American woman’s blatherings, continuing instead to stare mindlessly out at the rain dripping down the window. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone? They’d medicated her to the point of blissful numbness; why not just leave it at that instead of constantly picking at her to talk about her feelings? Especially since they refused to believe the truth when she told it to them, plainly and without embellishment?

They thought she was delusional because she claimed to know Sherlock Holmes, recently returned from the dead, as she’d seen on the telly in the day room. At first she’d visually consumed every picture of him, hungry for signs that he and John and Daisy were doing all right without her, but she soon realized all she was doing was making things worse for herself. Sherlock and John looked happy in the candid snaps she saw, just as happy as they had in the ones Mycroft had sent her. Daisy wasn’t to be seen, but she could understand that; Sherlock would want to keep her away from the press, and if John was still pretending to be her father, she would be of little interest to those jackals.

No, they were happy together, John and Sherlock, just as Mycroft had predicted. They didn’t need her, Daisy didn’t need her, and no one was going to come and take her out of this place. Hell, some days, right after she’d taken her medication, she wondered if she’d made it all up as her therapist kept insisting; who was she, after all, to claim a relationship with a famous man like Sherlock Holmes?

A hand on her shoulder brought Molly out of herself; she flinched away, turning haunted eyes up to meet those of the therapist…

…and freezing in shock as instead she found herself facing the man she’d just been thinking about.

Sherlock. Sherlock was here, in New York, here in this awful place…why? Hope struggled to bloom in her chest at the sight of him, but his grim expression caused her to shrink away from him, lowering her head and twisting her hands nervously together. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left her, Sherlock, I know, but it was…she was crying and I…and John was coming home…M-mycroft s-said…”

She was stuttering again, the stutter she’d lost around him once she understood he valued her and needed her, it was back and of course it was, why wouldn’t it be? Because he really didn’t value her, he was probably just here to make sure she had no plans to return home, to interrupt the life he was building with John and Daisy…

She didn’t even realize she was crying until suddenly warm arms were enfolding her in an embrace she’d longed to feel for so long. She resisted at first; she wasn’t worth it, didn’t deserve his comfort, then turned and buried her face in Sherlock’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

She heard him saying something, his voice a soothing, long-missed rumble in her ears, but she couldn’t make out more than a word or two over the sound of her own broken sobs.

“…everything’s in order…”

Sherlock, that was Sherlock, he was real, he was here, he’d come for her and he was holding her and saying something…

“…belongings together…”

The therapist, not worth listening to, not with Sherlock here to…to do what? Panic attempted to flutter free of the cage the medication had placed it in, but then she heard the words that made her aching heart sing: “…take her home...”

“Oh, yes, please, Sherlock, take me home,” she begged, staring up at him with hope bright in her eyes. “I promise, I promise I’ll do better, you don’t have to love me, just let me try to do better, I’ll stay out of the way but I miss my baby, I do, I shouldn’t have left her, I’m so sorry, I’ll never let it happen again, I’ll do whatever Mycroft wants me to do as long as he lets me go home…”

Her words trailed off into incoherent sobs again, and she lowered her head to her hands, thus missing the expression of absolute fury that had darkened Sherlock’s face at the sound of his brother’s name. It was just as well; her state of mind was so fragile that the sight of Sherlock’s anger might very well have been mistaken as being directed at her instead of being on her behalf.

Gently Sherlock coaxed Molly to her feet, barking out demands of the flustered therapist as he continued to cradle her to his chest. The American therapist who’d been assigned to Molly’s case – unmarried, two younger siblings, suffering from chronic sinusitis and only marginally competent at her chosen profession – babbled a stream of apologies and excuses that he ignored as he walked Molly out of the office and down the hall leading to her small, barren room.

A quick glance told him that, as he’d demanded, her pitifully few belongings had already been packed up and deposited in the rental car he’d driven here, immediately after the private jet he’d commandeered from Mycroft’s government offices had touched down. As expected, his brother was allowing him these ‘irregularities’ as he would no doubt deem them, but Sherlock didn’t waste any time believing it was out of some sense of guilt or responsibility. No, Mycroft was simply being expedient. He’d seen that his carefully orchestrated and systematic attempt to excise Molly from Sherlock’s life – destroying her in the process as if she were nothing more than moving wallpaper – had failed, and bowed to the inevitable.

Sherlock banished Mycroft from his thoughts will little effort, focusing on Molly and what she needed, rather than on how much he wanted to take his brother’s precious brolly and shove it right up his supercilious, holier-than-thou a…

“Mr. Holmes!” The voice came from behind him, and he turned irritably to see who it was. Ah, the nurse’s aide or orderly or whatever they called such employees of the snake-pit in which he’d found his Molly. The young woman was holding something…Molly’s mobile. “Dr. Thayer forgot to give this to you. Sorry.” She held it out to him and he deposited it in his pocket without a word, giving the young woman – who reminded him a bit of Sally Donovan, although with less hair and a friendlier smile – a curt nod in lieu of thanks. Then he urged Molly into the jacket he’d brought with him – one of her own, abandoned at Baker Street when she fled – and continued to assist her in leaving this wretched hell-hole behind.

She stumbled once, at a short flight of stairs leading to the main reception area, and he unhesitatingly swept her up into his arms. She’d stopped crying finally, but he paused long enough to swipe the box of tissues sat on the reception counter before carrying her to his car. “Molly, I just need to set you down for a moment so I can get you settled,” he murmured, knowing John would be pleased that he’d actually listened to everything he had to say on how best to proceed when dealing with Molly once he’d reached her side. “I just need you to stand up for a moment, then you can sit down and then,” his voice caught a bit, and he cursed sentiment even while silently acknowledging that he could no longer deny its place in his life. “…then I’ll take you home.”

Molly barely seemed to understand his words, lost as she still seemed to be in her ongoing misery. Sherlock felt an uncomfortable sensation in the region of his heart; if he were John, he supposed he’d describe it as ‘aching’ but he dismissed such fanciful hyperbole. It was simply a physical manifestation of the mental discomfort he felt at seeing his pathologist reduced to such a state…and all because his idiot brother thought he had the right to run his life. Wasn’t running the entire British fucking government enough?

Feeling his simmering rage on the verge of boiling over, Sherlock once again tamped it down. He settled Molly on her feet, steadying her with one arm around her waist as he fished his keys from his pocket and unlocked the car. After he got her settled comfortably in the seat – leaning across to buckle her in securely, and secretly proud of himself for not forgetting which side of the car was the blasted passenger side – he closed the door, dashed around to the driver’s side, and soon they were seeing the last of ‘Shadybrooke’ in the rearview mirror.

He repressed a shudder of distaste; he still couldn’t hear the word ‘brook’ no matter what the context without flashing back to that day on the rooftop. At least he knew that Moriarty was well and truly dead, no threat to the people Sherlock lov…uh, the people who were important to him, who mattered. Like Molly. He glanced at her silent form out of the corner of his eye, keeping the rest of his attention on the winding road, deducing her, analyzing her, and damning his brother for nearly destroying her out of his misguided delusions and personal prejudices. At least Honoria had finally smartened up and got away from her father’s poisonous influence before he ruined her as well; her siblings were sensible, well-adjusted young women and would no doubt continue to be good influences on her the more time she spent in their company.

An hour later, when he was certain Molly had dozed off, he risked a quick call to John. “I’ve got her,” he said as soon as the other man answered the phone. “We’ll be on a plane in another two hours and back in England in eight.” He paused as John shot out a series of anxious questions, quelling a sigh of impatience. “John, John!” he barked, finally silencing his friend. “I know you’re worried, but there’s no point in me giving you a detailed analysis of Molly’s current condition, especially as I’m no expert. She appeared very distant and unfocused when I first saw her, although that could have been the result of the medication they’ve been forcing down her throat for the past few days.”

The remainder of the ride was spent in checking on Molly, who continued to sleep, her head resting on the window glass and her expression much more peaceful in repose, and reassuring John that things were going to be all right. Of course he couldn’t make any such guarantees, nor did John actually believe them, but it was one of those rituals people performed when they were worried, and for once in his life Sherlock forbore from pointing out the uselessness of doing so. John had been a nervous wreck, although heroically doing his best to hide it, ever since Mrs. Hudson had convinced him that it wouldn’t be a good idea to put Daisy on a plane at her age and fly her across the Atlantic, even if it was to be reunited with her mother. And of course the fools at Shadybrooke had backed her up with their concerns about Molly’s reactions, so John had reluctantly agreed to stay home with their daughter while Sherlock went to fetch her mother.

He grit his teeth as he recalled the surprise with which his appearance had been greeted; apparently no one had bothered to inform Molly’s case worker that he was coming to take her home, the release papers had been mislaid…one idiotic calamity after another that, if he didn’t know any better, he would have laid at his brother’s feet. However, bureaucracy needed no assistance to fuck up, and since he knew he’d never be able to prove otherwise, he chose to believe Mycroft had taken Sherlock’s warning – and punch to the face – seriously and would stay out of their lives from now on.

The only question, was it too late? Although he’d done his best to allay John’s fears for Molly’s mental health, Sherlock still had far too many worries of his own. He couldn’t stop replaying the way she’d alternately thanked him for coming and blamed herself for everything that had happened. The fact that she thought he’d be angry with her for telling John the truth was particularly troubling, although he’d known to expect such a reaction based on some of the transcripts of her so-called ‘therapy sessions’ he’d read on the plane to America.

His fists tightened on the steering wheel, and he had to consciously ease his grip. Neither of them would be well served if he lost his temper while driving, and the last thing John needed to hear was that the two people he loved most in the world (besides Daisy) had died in a car accident.

A smile drifted across Sherlock’s face at the thought of being reunited with John and their daughter once again. He’d only been away from them for a few days, and it was astonishing how much he missed them already. He looked forward to seeing Molly reunited with them as well, and spared a moment to envision life at 221B Baker Street with the four of them. His pathologist and his doctor and his daughter, with Mrs. Hudson rounding out the group, a proper Nana to her ‘grand-tenant’ as she’d jokingly come to refer to Daisy.

The grin faded as he thought about the fact that he’d yet to introduce either John or Daisy to his actual parents. They’d been out of the country on one of their interminable jaunts after seeing him off to take down Moriarty’s criminal empire, and Mycroft had deliberately kept them from knowing about Daisy until after Sherlock’s return – and even then, he’d manipulated things so that the official story of John being her father was the one they were told. Sherlock hadn’t contradicted that since his return, wanting to present his parents with his entire new family, Molly included.

She’d like them, and they her. They’d like John, too; they’d been so happy when he’d taken a flatemate, when he started having friends in his life. As for how they’d feel about the romantic relationship between the three of them…well, that remained to be seen. Not everyone had the ability to understand how someone could lov…uh, have feelings for…more than one person. He snorted derisively. Why the hell shouldn’t they? A parent could love more than one child, couldn’t they? So why couldn’t he love more than one person, want them both in his bed and in his life?

Love. There, he’d finally acknowledged the word. He loved Molly, he loved John, and they loved him and each other and the three of them would make this work in defiance of the odds his brother had gone to such pains to point out to them all. Molly would recover, she would be a mother to Daisy and any other children they might have – a son with John’s blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, perhaps? – and life would be…good.

He would do his utmost to make it that way.

“I promise, Molly,” he murmured, reaching over the gently rest his hand on hers. She twitched a bit but didn’t wake up, and he risked rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. The furrows that had appeared in her brow instantly smoothed out, and her mouth relaxed back into a half-smile again.


	11. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading and kudosing and especially for reviewing. This chapter is a bit heavy on the psychobabble, but I wanted to show Molly getting some good therapy and advice after what Mycroft put her through.

Getting off the plane and walking into Heathrow was one of the hardest things Molly had ever done. Knowing that John and Daisy would be waiting to greet them only elevated her anxiety. Yes, she wanted to see them, so badly, but at the same time she was terrified of doing so. Only knowing that Sherlock was by her side, his arm wrapped warmly around her waist and his voice murmuring words of comfort and encouragement in her ear as they left the passengers-only area and entered the main portion of the airport kept her from bolting for the nearest ladies’ loo.

John saw them first, and Molly was stunned at the broad smile that lit up his face as soon as he saw her. Her first impulse was to believe the smile was for Sherlock ( _what did John have to smile about with her, she’d run off and left him alone with a baby that wasn’t even his to take care of_ ), but in defiance of that impulse, she heard him say, “Look, Daisy! There’s your Mum!” Then he raised the plump little hand and waved it at Molly and she completely fell apart. Great tearing sobs that hurt her throat, tears like molten lava on her cheeks and only Sherlock’s continued support of her body – both arms wrapped around her now, holding her close, allowing her to hide her face in the folds of his coat and press her cheek against his chest – kept her from collapsing to the floor.

She was aware of movement as Sherlock shuffled them off to one side, the feeling of a solid surface against one side – the wall, most likely – as the sobs continued to shake her body. After a few minutes she was able to gain some semblance of control over herself, enough to lift her head and offer up a weak, raspy, “Sorry,” to Sherlock. 

He said nothing, merely handed her a handkerchief – a real, cotton handkerchief, not a rubbish tissue which she’d destroy within seconds – and waited for her to continue to collect herself. She became more aware of her surroundings by the second: it was, indeed, a wall she was pressed up against, as well as Sherlock’s solid, comforting form, and there was a hand stroking the back of her head soothingly as well.

But not Sherlock’s hand; both his arms were still wrapped securely around her body. She craned her neck and saw John standing close by her side, Daisy snuggled into his right arm while he continued to stroke her hair with his left hand. “Hi,” she finally said, her voice sounding so tentative to her ears that she wished she’d kept shut.

“Hi yourself,” he said back, offering a tender smile that she somehow managed to return. “Welcome home, Molly. We’ve missed you.”

She looked down at Daisy as she nodded acknowledgment of John’s words, and though she felt like bursting into tears again, she managed to restrain herself. Her daughter had grown so much while she’d been away, looked so much bigger now as she blinked sleepily and returned Molly’s gaze. Molly reached out with a trembling hand, intent on stroking a finger along the back of the tiny hand that John had been waving at her, but snatched it back at the last minute, unconsciously shaking her head.

“I think that’s enough for now,” she heard a new voice say, and looked up to see John’s therapist, Dr. Thompson, joining the small group. She offered Molly a neutral smile, but her expression turned a bit stern as she looked up at Sherlock. “I told you I didn’t think it was a good idea for us to meet you at the airport, Sherlock,” she said, her voice just as stern as her expression. “If this is going to work, then you’ll have to trust me to know what I’m doing.” Then she looked over at Molly and her expression softened into compassion. “Molly, hi, it’s good to see you again. I get the impression you didn’t expect to see me, though.”

Molly shook her head, offering Sherlock an uncertain glance, which he met with a small pout. The familiar expression of Sherlock feeling thwarted brought a natural smile to Molly’s lips, and she turned to take Dr. Thompson’s proffered hand. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “I know…I know I’m going to need some help, and John has nothing but praise for you.”

“I understand you’ll need to talk to someone you can at least partially trust, and since you trust John, he thought it would be a good idea if we at least got together once or twice while you make up your mind,” the therapist said. Then, glancing around with a wry expression on her face: “Although I’m sure you would rather have had this first meeting somewhere a little less public.” She gave Sherlock – and John, who at least looked abashed – a quick scowl before saying, “Sherlock, why don’t you get Molly’s luggage while John and Daisy and I escort her to the car? We’ll meet you there.”

She gave him no chance to either protest or respond, simply holding out her hand to Molly, who took it after a quick glance at Sherlock. His expression had gone dour, but he released her and nodded at the question in her eyes. Then he leaned down and pressed a quick peck to her cheek and strode off in the direction of the baggage claim, leaving her with John and Dr. Thompson – and Daisy.

Dr. Thompson – Ella, as she told Molly she preferred unless Molly felt more comfortable keeping things more formal between them – kept up a soothing stream of small talk as the four of them made their way to the airport car park. Every time Daisy made a sound or moved in John’s arms, Molly’s eyes jerked over to her, and once or twice she lifted her hand as if once again wanting to touch her daughter. Each time, however, she looked away and clenched her fists, reactions that didn’t go unnoticed by either John or Dr. Thompson. “Molly, why don’t we get some coffee to go while John gets Daisy settled in her car seat?” she suggested as they neared a kiosk belonging to a popular chain that had once been one of Molly’s favorites.

“Yeah, it takes a bit to get her snapped in and all,” John replied, giving Molly a smile. Another smile she felt she didn’t deserve, just as she didn’t deserve to have anything to do with her daughter after she’d just abandoned her like that…Molly felt herself working into another fit of crying and grimly bit back the tears, just nodding in response to Dr. Thompson’s suggestion and watching quietly as John and Daisy walked away.

The stop for coffee helped Molly pull herself together a bit, and by the time they were all settled in the car – Sherlock not long behind them, stowing Molly’s few pieces of luggage in the boot before jumping into the driver’s seat – she was able to sit behind John and next to Daisy without feeling as if she were about to burst into tears again. She even managed a bit of conversation, but not much, since every subject seemed too painful to bear for more than a few seconds at a time – everything from the weather to John’s work at the clinic to Sherlock’s reemergence into the limelight just served to remind her of all she’d missed.

When they arrived at Baker Street, she had another moment of panic thinking about facing Mrs. Hudson, but Sherlock casually mentioned that the older woman was visiting her sister in Leeds and Molly relaxed again. She would still have to face their landlady’s justifiable censure at some point, but at least that point wasn’t right now.

Ella stayed long enough to see Molly settled in what had once been John’s bedroom and still hadn’t been transformed fully into a nursery, although the crib and dressing table had been assembled. There was also a day bed and chest of drawers Molly could use, all the amenities, in fact.

Her face crumpled as she looked around the cheery yellow room, and only Ella’s soothing hand on her shoulder kept her from collapsing to the floor entirely. “I don’t belong here,” she said in a low voice, hugging her arms tightly to herself.

The two women were alone in the room, per Ella’s request. Sherlock had been uncharacteristically silent since their arrival, and Molly felt a vague sense of guilt about that. But then, she felt a vague sense of guilt at just about everything these days. “Why do you think that?” Ella asked, walking over to the day bed and sitting on the edge. She patted the bed encouragingly, and Molly joined her after a slight hesitation.

“Because I don’t,” Molly replied, sitting down, wringing her hands anxiously together as she gazed around blankly. “Sherlock and John, they’ve settled into a life without me, they deserve to be happy together…”

“Molly,” Ella interrupted, quietly but firmly. Molly’s gaze met that of the other woman. “I’ve read the transcripts of your so-called ‘sessions’ with Dr. Halliday, and it’s very clear to me that we’re going to have to work hard to undo some of the damage he’s done to you. Starting with the fact that both John and Sherlock missed you very much while you’ve been gone, and they both very much want you back in their lives. And not just for Daisy’s sake,” she added when Molly opened her mouth to mutter something along those very lines. “They love you, that’s quite clear from what I’ve observed since they asked me to help you. They’ve been worried about you, and have worked very hard to try and find you and get you home again.”

She smiled as she reached out and gave Molly’s hand a gentle squeeze. “That being said, if you truly think you’d be more comfortable elsewhere, arrangements can be made. It’s entirely up to you. But don’t ever think that you’re not wanted here. Am I right?” she added, raising her voice a bit.

“Absolutely.” 

Molly turned her head, startled, to find John and Sherlock both standing in the doorway. It was John who had spoken, but it was Sherlock who strode into the room and came to a stop in front of the bed. He knelt down, steadying himself with one hand on the bed, close to Molly but not touching her. “Everything Ella said is nothing but the truth, Molly.” He looked at her with naked honesty in his eyes, nothing faked or false about it, and Molly felt her emotional reserve cracking just the tiniest bit as he looked over at John and said, “You’re better at this than I am, John. Tell her.”

“Ella’s right, Molly,” John said, smiling at her from near the door. He hadn’t moved closer, and Molly realized it was so he could keep an ear out for Daisy, who was sleeping in her bassinette. She saw the antenna from the monitor sticking out of his back pocket, and was instantly filled with love for him, paired with relief in knowing that she’d left Daisy in good, loving hands. Her face clouded as her heart clenched in a wave of guilt, shame and pain at how selfish she’d been, but then John continued speaking and gradually the pain eased at the raw honesty in his voice. “We both love you, and neither of us wanted you to leave, that was all Mycroft’s doing.” 

At the sound of his brother’s name, Sherlock made a disdainful snort and muttered something that sounded very much like ‘bastard’ under his breath. John ignored the interruption, holding Molly’s gaze with his own. “Molly, we’d much rather you stayed here, even if it’s just in this bedroom, until you’re ready to take up your old life again…or rather,” he added, with a bashful grin directed at Sherlock, “the life we three decided we wanted before Mycroft decided to stick his nose in our business.”

“And I promise, Molly,” Sherlock interjected, reaching out and clasping her hand in his as she turned to look at him, “he won’t be interfering again.” The black look on his face was a bit terrifying, but Molly was comforted by the fact that he was reserving all his anger for his brother. She still felt she deserved at least some of the blame, but knowing that John and Sherlock were so fiercely devoted to her – or at least, had convinced themselves that they were – was another source of comfort. “I’ll stay,” she said in a soft voice, mustering up a smile that was quickly replaced by a yawn. She clapped her free hand over her mouth and muttered a muffled apology when she was done.

Ella stood up, indicating that Sherlock should do the same. “All right, then. Our first session is scheduled for the day after tomorrow, Molly, but if you feel like you need more time – or if you feel like you need to see me sooner, call me.” She handed Molly her business card. “Any time, day or night. Right now, you’re my main priority. I’m confident you won’t try to harm yourself again now that certain outside influences have been removed from your life, but if you start feeling suicidal, please, call me right away. All right?”

Molly nodded and said, “Yes, of course, I promise. But that was…it was just because of the pictures Mycroft sent me, and I was feeling so worthless…” She gave John and Sherlock an actual, feeling-it-not-faking-it smile and said, “You’ve both made me remember why I love you so much. Thank you for coming to get me. I promise to do my best to…to get better. I want to be a mother to Daisy, a real mother, but I just…” Words failed her, and Sherlock quickly gathered her to him in a hug. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at John, who immediately understood what was being silently asked of him.

“Ella, would you mind keeping an eye on Daisy, just for a few minutes? I’ll be right down,” he said, handing her the baby monitor. She nodded and took it, reiterating that any of them could call her any time they needed to talk, then left the room.

As soon as she was gone, John hurried over to the bed, sitting next to Molly and putting his arms around her well. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, and the three of them just sat there, embracing one another, until Molly broke the silence with another yawn.

John insisted on tucking her in, sending Sherlock down to the kitchen for small glass of milk while he fussed over the blankets and pillows.

When they were alone, Molly spoke. “You shouldn’t wait for me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, honestly puzzled by her words.

“To be with Sherlock,” she explained, turning onto her back and staring at John, her expression serious. “John, you love him. Don’t use me as an excuse not to be with him. Sherlock told me you’ve both been waiting for me, and I just…I want you to know I don’t mind, I understand, you don’t have to wait for me.”

He frowned and reached for her hand. She allowed him to clasp it, eyes downcast as she waited for him to say something. “Molly, I love you too,” John said softly, reaching up with his free hand, using just the tips of his fingers to graze her cheek. “We both do. Ella was right; he was just as worried about you as I was. You’re the reason the two of us are together as more than friends at all, and to become more…intimate…without you, before you’re ready to be with us, it just…feels wrong.”

Molly shook her head, and he could see what an effort it was taking her not to cry. “No, John, it’s not wrong. And if…you’ll never know if you just w-want to be with each, each other if you wait, if you don’t try without me.”

John was angry, angry enough to kill as he contemplated the depths of the damage Mycroft and his ‘therapist’ had done to Molly in so short a time. He’d always seen her as so strong, and now she was fragile, emotionally and physically. He just hoped Ella would be able to undo some of that damage, to help Molly return to the strong, loving woman she’d been before. However, he also had to take responsibility for some of that damage, and offered an apology of his own. “I’m sorry I was so hard on you, Molly, after you told me about Sherlock. I was angry and hurt at him for not trusting me, more than I was at you for not telling me, but I took it out on you. I had no idea what you were going through, and I just made things worse, and I am so, so sorry for that.”

She squeezed his hand. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “If you can forgive me for abandoning you and Daisy, imagine how much easier it is for me to forgive you for being angry, especially when I deserved it.”

John wanted to protest the way she kept piling the responsibility for things on herself, but recognized that it wasn’t the time for that. Not yet, not when she’d just gotten home and still had a long, hard road ahead of her. All he did was kiss her forehead and tell her once again how much he loved her. Then Sherlock reappeared with the milk, took one look at the two of them and frowned. “John, Dr. Thompson cautioned us not to overburden Molly with anything just yet. I admit I was perhaps a bit overenthusiastic when I had you meet us at the airport, but I have been properly dressed down for that and neither one of us should be pushing Molly too hard at the moment.”

Sherlock being so caring and concerned for her wellbeing felt alien, made Molly feel a bit like Alice down the rabbit hole…but at the same time, it felt good. “It’s all right, Sherlock, don’t worry. I think…I really do think…we’ll all be fine.” And she meant it; for the first time in months, she felt a cautious ray of hope taking root in her heart.

Only time would show if that root would grow or wither away and die, but she had a feeling – a very, very good feeling – that it would be the former and not the latter.

Especially if Mycroft Holmes actually had been forced to stop meddling in his brother’s private life.


	12. Bonding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Hope you enjoy it. There's probably only one (smutty) chapter left and possibly an epilogue. thanks to everyone for reading and commenting i really appreciate it!

The first time Molly held Daisy in her arms after her return she broke down into tears and handed her off to John as quickly as she could. Not because she was afraid of hurting her daughter – after a month of rather intensive therapy sessions, she’d come to accept that all new mothers felt such things to some degree or other – but because she didn’t want to upset her daughter with her sobbing. John fretted and Sherlock shrugged, but after a few minutes she was able to get control of her runaway emotions and try again. This time she snuggled Daisy close and lost herself in studying her sweet little face, noting how wide and blue her eyes were now, how they showed hints of green flecks when the light hit them just right. Her adorable little snub of a nose was very similar to Molly’s in shape, but every other feature, from her hair to her hint of cheekbones to her perfect little cupid’s bow of a mouth came from her father.

She looked up at John and Sherlock, sitting next to her on the sofa, one on either side, tears once again glinting in her eyes. “She’s perfect,” Molly whispered. “Thank you so much for taking…for keeping her…” She choked up, unable to continue.

As if they’d rehearsed the movement, Sherlock gently took Daisy from her arms and John pulled her into his for a warm embrace, peppering the top of head with kisses and murmuring endearments and encouragement to her as she sobbed into his collar. She vaguely noticed Sherlock rising and leaving the room but was too emotionally overwrought to wonder where he was going. John pulled her closer, telling her he loved her, they all loved her, over and over again and practically willing her to believe it.

A few minutes later another pair of arms slid around their entwined forms; Sherlock had returned, minus Daisy. “She’s asleep in her cot, the monitor’s on the table, and yes, John,” he added with a bit of acid to his voice, “I changed her nappy. She was barely wet.”

Molly felt a chuckle escape her at what sounded very much like a common argument between the two men; just as quickly, the chuckle turned back to tears as she thought about how she should have been the one prodding Sherlock to change Daisy’s nappies. Just as she should have been the one helping John until Sherlock actually returned, not leaving him alone to deal with a newborn.

“Stop blaming yourself, Molly,” she heard Sherlock murmur, right before pressing a warm kiss to the tip of her ear. “Post-partum depression coupled with Mycroft’s inability to stay out of my business is to blame, not you. John and I both feel that way, you should know that by now.”

“And if you still don’t quite believe it,” John put in quickly, raising his head to glare at Sherlock, “we’ll keep on telling you until you do. Because we love you.”

She allowed them to cocoon her in their warm embraces, the soft sound of their voices washing over her like a soothing tide as she closed her eyes, the tears finally drying as she allowed herself to believe – at least in this moment – that what they were saying was true.

They shifted position when Molly’s arm started to go numb, settling with her comfortably ensconced on Sherlock’s lap and John rubbing her feet, his own legs stretched out on either side of Sherlock’s.

As Molly drifted off to sleep, her last waking thought was the wistful hope that maybe things really would work out for the unusual little family she’d become a part of.

oOo

It took much less time than Molly would have predicted before she found herself sleeping in the same bed that John and Sherlock had been sharing since that latter’s return. Well, ‘sharing’ in the sense that, on the nights Sherlock actually slept, he and John slept next to one another. Both men were quite easy about telling Molly about their lives during her temporary absence, the normal adjustments that had been made as they reacquainted themselves with one another, and the oftentimes frustrating but still wonderful adjustments that had been made since acknowledging their feelings. Molly already knew the two men hadn’t done more than kiss and share a few mutual wanks since Sherlock’s return, and it still bothered her that they weren’t even doing that now that she was back.

Her return to the master bedroom happened within three weeks of her return to Baker Street. First she was taking naps there with Daisy, who seemed to love being held by her mother as much as she did by her two fathers; then one day she woke up from such a nap to find Sherlock cuddled up next to her, with Daisy still snoring in her bassinette while John was at work. After that she would occasionally wake up to find John snoring beside her instead, and then a week later both men simply joined her when she went to lie down, one on either side of her. Sherlock was a snuggler and John was a sprawler, but Molly realized to her surprise that they fit well together – and that she was comfortable with her two men in bed with her at the same time.

The turning point came one night a few days after a long and rather arduous case that had kept the two men out of the flat for nearly twenty-four hours. Molly had just put Daisy down to sleep when they returned, looking exhausted yet pleased with themselves. “Solved it, did you?” she asked, beaming at them. It was her first real day alone with Daisy – and Mrs. Hudson just downstairs, of course, but without John or Sherlock on hand to bolster her – and it had gone beautifully. 

Instead of answering her, John grinned and pulled her into his arms for a warm hug, while Sherlock turned her face to his and kissed her on the lips. “It went splendidly,” he announced. “But I think we could both sleep for a week.” He put a hand on each of their shoulders and steered them to the bedroom. “Come on, Molly, we sleep better when you’re with us.”

And just like that, Molly found herself moved out of the future nursery. Two weeks later it was painted and furnished, and Daisy was installed in her crib, where she seemed quite content. After a few fussy nights of interrupted sleep, she returned to her normal six-to-eight hours at a time sleeping pattern.

Molly’s guilt and self-loathing had been gradually wearing away; daily therapy sessions between thrice-weekly, and now, just over two months since her return to London, she was only seeing Ella every Thursday afternoon, and had been considering at least a part-time return to work at St. Bart’s when her official parental leave was up (she had thirty-nine paid weeks and unpaid leave after that up to fifty-two weeks).

She couldn’t get over how wonderful and understanding people had been. Mrs. Hudson had cooed and clucked over her like the fussiest of mother hens, reassuring her over and over again that she didn’t blame her one bit, that she forgave her all. Mike Stamford, who had been made aware of the situation when John had been frantically seeking anyone who might have heard from Molly when she first went missing, had been just as lovely. He’d called and then stopped to admire Daisy, only saying that he hoped Molly would be able to return when her leave was up and making no mention of her breakdown and disappearance. Her other coworkers had been told nothing in detail, only that she hadn’t been up for the baby shower they’d wished to throw her, and she had no close friends in London other than Sherlock and John.

The baby shower was due to happen in two day’s time; with Ella’s encouragement she was going to finally take the first step toward reimmersing herself in the life she’d so precipitously abandoned. Sherlock wasn’t going to attend, of course, but John would be there, and Mrs. Hudson and Ella, all three of them supporting her and ready to assist if she felt the need to escape.

“You’re fretting over the baby shower, you know you don’t have to attend if you don’t feel ready.” Sherlock’s voice cut into her thoughts, and she looked up, giving him a warm smile as he flopped onto the sofa next to her. John was at the clinic and Daisy was still downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, having fallen asleep just before Molly arrived home from her appointment with Ella.

“No, Sherlock, it’s all right,” she said, running her fingers though his hair. He grunted and closed his eyes, his features relaxing as she continued the soothing motions. Soothing for both of them; she’d quickly discovered that the feel of his silky curls beneath her fingers eased her tensions the same way a cuddle with John in front of the telly did, or tickling Daisy’s belly and making her squirm with laughter.

“I’ll go.”

Molly’s fingers stilled, and she stared down at Sherlock, not sure she’d heard him correctly. Maybe he was talking about something else? “You’ll go…where?” she asked.

“To the baby shower,” he mumbled, eyes stubbornly remaining closed. “If you want me to. If it’ll make you feel better. I’ll go.”

Molly’s breath hitched in her throat; her fingers tightened on his curls and Sherlock gave a little yelp as she dragged his head up and hers down enough for her to plant a fervent kiss on his lips.

The kiss, a spontaneous expression of Molly’s gratitude at what she knew was a real sacrifice Sherlock was offering to make for her, quickly turned into a full-on snogging session, interrupted only when John entered the flat a few minutes later. “Hey, let me in on some of that!” he exclaimed as he joined them on the sofa, worming his way between them with a massive grin on his face. Molly giggled as Sherlock proceeded to plant a sloppy, open mouthed kiss on the other man, but her giggles evaporated into appreciative sighs when John did the same to her.

It was lovely, and even the occasional spasms of guilt and uncertainty didn’t stop Molly from enjoying that long-overdue moment of mutual affection combined with a sort of giddy happiness. From kissing things quickly turned to tickling and teasing, ending only by the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s cheery “Hoo-hoo, all! Somebody wants to see her mummy and daddys!” 

After that, it was if something broken inside Molly had finally healed. She stopped thinking of herself as an impediment to John and Sherlock’s happiness, and instead saw herself as integral to it.

The way they’d been saying she was all along.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for joining me on this dark and angsty ride! To send it off, here's a little parentlock, a little fluff and a little smut!

It was Daisy’s first birthday, and Molly was alone with her daughter, waiting for John to return from the shops with the last-minute party needs, and for Sherlock to return from wherever he’d run off to in order to escape said shopping trip. He’d claimed a last-minute need to look at some evidence for a case, but had been so visibly horrified by the thought of purchasing a balloon-animal kit that Molly and John had allowed him the fib, even giggled together over it afterwards.

“I love both your dads, Daisy, but sometimes it’s like having extra children in the house.” She wasn’t excluding John from that statement; he could be as bad as Sherlock at times, but Molly found it easier to forgive him his moments of irresponsibility since he’d stepped up so magnificently while she’d been deep in the thrall of post-partum depression.

It still gripped her at times, a melancholy she couldn’t shake off or a moment of panic at the enormous responsibility she faced as Daisy’s mother, but when it did happen she had the love of Sherlock and John and all their friends to keep her from completely losing herself in sadness and doubt.

Daisy was giggling and splashing in the bath; Molly had already done her hair and soaped her soft, ivory-and-pink skin, and was allowing the birthday girl extra play time. The party was mostly for the grown-ups in her life, although two little girls and a boy from her play group were coming. Just enough little ones for Daisy to enjoy, not so many that she’d become overwhelmed. 

And if she did, well, it was off to her bedroom for a nap. She was a sound sleeper who rarely fought against naps, and Molly fervently hoped that would continue for a while longer.

Especially on days when Sherlock and John showed up unexpectedly after lunch, as they had just two days ago, all revved up from solving the case early and showing up Scotland Yard for the millionth time. Molly had been greeted at the door to the flat with exuberant kisses and hugs; Sherlock had swung her around in circles until she was breathless, then snogged her silly while John peeked in on Daisy and made sure she was well asleep before bolting down the stairs to rejoin his two lovers.

The three of them had become physically intimate as a trio only a few days after Molly’s baby shower, and their bond had only deepened in the time since. Some nights they simply shared the king-sized bed; some nights Sherlock didn’t sleep at all, leaving Molly and John to snuggle together. But other nights…ah, those other nights were worthy of a spot in Playboy magazine’s letters column.

And some days as well. She remembered how excited John had been after checking up on Daisy that afternoon only two days ago; he’d seen Sherlock and Molly snogging and had wasted no time in herding them both into the bedroom, shucking clothes as they went. By the time they reached the bed, Molly was fully naked; she clambered up on top of the duvet and knelt there, giggling, as Sherlock “helped” John remove his trousers and pants by yanking them down around the other man’s ankles, then sinking to his knees and taking John’s cock in his mouth. But not before flashing Molly a wicked grin; she’d discovered quite the voyeuristic side to herself since the three of them had become lovers, and enjoyed watching them almost as much as she enjoyed being with them. She’d stroked her rapidly-dampening pussy while John braced himself with his fingers knotted firmly in Sherlock’s thick, black curls, his eyes shut tight and breathy moans and strangled curses issuing from his lips as Sherlock swallowed him down to his base. It was a talent Molly envied, to be able to take John in so deeply, but given the swan-like length of Sherlock’s throat, it wasn’t a talent she was particularly surprised to discover he had.

John had finally pulled Sherlock’s head away from him with a groan. “Christ, Sherlock, you just want to get me off now so you can have Molly all to yourself, don’t you,” he’d accused.

Sherlock had just grinned unrepentantly before hopping back to his feet and discarding the remainder of his clothing. “Sorry, John, I can’t help it if your recovery time has slowed down a bit with old age,” he’d taunted, then vaulted onto the bed and covered Molly’s body with his own. “How about it, Molly, shall we give the Old Man a good show?” he’d growled into her ear, and she’d gasped and moaned as his hands kneaded her breasts, his knee shoving her legs apart impatiently.

John had settled onto his side across from the two of them, watching avidly as Sherlock replaced his hands with his lips and tongue, teasing each of Molly’s nipples into aching peaks. She’d beckoned John to join them, needing to feel both their mouths on her at the same time. Until the first time they’d done that, each man suckling a nipple, she’d had no idea how fucking incredible it could feel.

It still felt incredible, something she never thought she could feel enough. Just as incredible as when, like now, John worked his way down her body and planted a series of searing kisses on her pussy, and Sherlock angled his body so Molly could take his cock into her mouth while simultaneously sliding two of her fingers into his lovely tight arsehole. They kept an entire basket of supplies by the bed now; finger cots and sexual lubricant and a stolen stash of Daisy’s baby wipes and condoms. Even though Molly had been fitted with a birth control implant, the one issue from her post-partum depression she couldn’t seem to shake was an utter terror of becoming pregnant again. Yes, one day she wanted to have John’s baby, but not yet. To assuage that irrational fear – and yes, she knew how irrational it was – both men used condoms when making love to her, front or rear. She longed for the day when that fear had finally been conquered, but until then, John and Sherlock were both patient and accepting of her needs.

And she was accepting of theirs. After John had made her come with his mouth, he’d started working his fingers along her arse, rubbing at her smaller entrance with fingers slick with her own juices. When he worked first one, then two fingers inside her, she knew exactly what he wanted, and popped her mouth off Sherlock’s dick in order to tug him down behind her. His eyes lit up when he realized what was coming, and Molly grinned as he fished out two condoms from the basket sat on the bedside table. She knelt up and straddled his legs after John removed his fingers, carefully cleaning them with one of the wipes Sherlock tossed him. Then he quickly donned one of the condoms, watching eagerly as Molly began the slow, careful process of lowering herself onto Sherlock’s cock.

“God, you have no idea what that does to me,” he panted as Molly nodded her readiness to him. He knelt carefully in front of her, easing his cock inside her. She knew he loved how tight she felt, just as she knew he loved the feel of Sherlock’s cock rubbing against his through the narrow barrier of Molly’s flesh separating them. She gasped and began moving, up and down, working into a rhythm that all three could enjoy. When she felt her second orgasm building she dug her hands into John’s shoulders, feeling Sherlock’s fingers tightening on her hips as he helped move her into position so that when she came she would achieve the maximum pleasure. 

After coming, she’d eased herself away from the two of them, content to watch as John pressed himself deep inside Sherlock, who was stroking his own cock, head thrown back and eyes tightly shut in the pleasure of the moment. Molly had rested her head on the pillow next to his, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder, when he’d turned his head and blindly sought her mouth with his. Their kisses had been urgent, passionate, their tongues tangling and teeth clacking as Sherlock reached his peak; he’d removed his condom and came over his stomach and hand, John following not long after with a string of muffled curses as he laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder opposite Molly.

They’d remained in bed, naked, tangled in one another’s embrace until the sound of Daisy stirring had come over the baby monitor. John had jumped up and thrown on his clothes, allowing Sherlock and Molly a few extra minutes of cuddling, and then it had been back to being parents and friends as well as lovers.

“Daisy, love, you are the luckiest little girl in the world,” Molly advised her daughter as she finally lifted her from the tub and started toweling her off with one of her cheerful yellow duckie towels. 

“Daisy lucky,” she echoed her mother, cheeks pink, hair disordered and damp, eyes glowing happily. “Lucky Daisy. Luv you, Mummy!”

Molly felt tears prickling in the corners of her eyes; impulsively she swept her still-wet daughter up into her arms and hugged her. “Mummy loves you too, sweetheart. So very, very much.”

“And so does Daddy, and so does Daddy John,” came an unexpected, but not unwelcome, voice from the door to the bathroom. Molly looked up and smiled at Sherlock as he joined them, kneeling down and taking an excitedly-squealing Daisy into his arms for a warm hug. He leaned over and kissed Molly softly on the lips. “Happy Daisy’s birthday, Molly.”

“Happy Daisy’s birthday to you too, Sherlock,” she replied, then added as she glanced up: “And happy Daisy’s birthday to you too, John.”

He had taken Sherlock’s place in the bathroom door, a Tesco’s bag in one hand and the paper sack holding the balloon animal kit in the other. He set them down and squeezed his way into the small room, taking his turn to hug Daisy and plant noisy kisses on her cheeks as she laughed and squirmed, loving all the attention. “Daisy luv Mummy, Daisy luv Daddy, Daisy luv Daddy John!” she crowed. “Daisy luv you all!”

Molly’s heart fell full to bursting; how had she managed to end up with such a perfect life, after everything that had gone wrong after her daughter’s birth? Then she looked at Sherlock and John, laughing and tickling Daisy under the chin, exchanging kisses with one another, and finally felt the last inhibition, the last fear, releasing itself.

“John,” she said softly as Sherlock lifted Daisy up and began to finish the drying-up process. He gave her an inquiring look; Molly leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “How do you feel about not wearing a condom the next time we make love? And maybe helping remove my implant?”

He stared at her, looking shocked, but then a huge grin broke out on his face and he pulled her to him for an enthusiastic kiss. “You hear that, Sherlock?” he said. “Maybe our Daisy will be getting a new little brother or sister soon!”

“Yes, John, I heard,” Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes while at the same time carefully dressing Daisy in her party dress, which Molly had laid on the edge of the sink. “Do try not to gloat too much the next time we have sex, hmm?”

Then Molly chastised him for talking like that in front of someone who was getting to the age of repeating things adults would rather they didn’t, and John informed him he was just jealous, and their good-natured bickering continued until the guests finally arrived.

Yes, Molly thought contentedly as she helped Daisy blow out the single, oversized candle on her cake, life might have had its rough patches – and no doubt would again in future – but all in all, she was happy.

And so very, very lucky.


End file.
